Like chalk and cheese...and a lack of culinary taste...

January 31st – Who is it that picks the support act? I mean…does whoever it is that does it do it out of a sense of revenge, or spite, or just a complete misreading of the whole musical genre of that night’s headline act? Mind you there’s often not a lot of love lost between the bands on any particular show bill. I can well remember on many occasions of being the support act, of instances of our band’s carefully-mixed levels for sound, painstakingly fixed during what little sound-check time we had (the lion’s share being put aside for the headline band) being spiked by the headline band’s sound engineer without our knowledge and us sounding like a crock of shit for the first three numbers whilst our guy re-set levels; ‘twas a regular game we played. They twiddled with our sound settings; we fiddled with theirs…but then we also pissed into the backs of their amps for good measure…so…

I remember going to see ‘Camel’ in Oxford and they had Richard Digance as support…? Now, I thought that pairing a whimsical folk-singer with a classically-based, electronic supergroup – see yesterday’s post – who were touring on the back of a full length album release, ‘The Snow Goose’ (beautiful piece of work – have a listen) was less than inspired; the audience who inhabited the venue while Mr. Digance was on seemed to back that up, all twenty of them plus me. I watch the support acts at every gig I go to, partly out of good manners and partly because I’m a cheapskate and want my money’s worth…and you can make some excellent discoveries too…sorry, off on a tangent again… Right, planning the support act.

With that in mind, I’d like to meet the guy who thought;

“Now, who can we pair with The Monkees for their upcoming U.S. tour…? I know, Jimi Hendrix! That’ll work!”

Yup, just like putting a dog-turd atop the crème brulee would.

Does anyone in this branch of band management and promotions actually do any research into the likelihood that 2 or 3 thousand bed-wetting, screaming pre-pubiscites would be enthralled by the sight of a black guitar-shagger like Hendrix singing about drugs, sex and shooting women who are unfaithful…? I mean, really?

When Buddy Holly toured the U.K. (or Great Britain as it was back then, none of this trendy street talk acronym stuff coined by your local politician so as to appear hep…like ‘Brit Pop’ and ‘Brit Art’; all Brit-bollocks promulgated by an out of touch political/upper class society that wants to introduce a level of the same verbal trouser-rolling they use to uncover outsiders to their world of privilege. What they can’t commandeer they subvert, a sort of crypto dumbing-down of the populace; reduce everything of importance down to Red Top parlance for the masses, ready-soaked and reared on a diet of ‘Eastenders’ and Celebrity Big Tosser…)… Sorry everyone, it doesn't take much to get me started, you ought to know that by now. I’ll try again. Planning the support act.

When Buddy Holly toured the U.K. his people decided that, yes, it would be a good idea to put Jimmy Edwards (of ‘Whacko!’ Fame? Surely not…I mean what did his act consist of, spanking some schoolchildren…can I say that nowadays…? Too late now) and, ON THE SAME BILL, Des O’Connor (do you remember him? ‘Dik-a-Dum-Dum…’? Oh, perlease…) to play support for Mr. Holly and the Everly Brothers. Publicists: The perfect example of power without knowledge.

So, after that little lot it seems hardly surprising that, when the Clash: -

“…London calling, now don't look to us, 

Phoney Beatlemania has bitten the dust

 London calling see we ain't got no swing,

 'Cept for the ring of that truncheon thing…”

first toured the U.S., the publicists and agents thought it would a good idea to partner them with Bo Diddley:

“…Just buy his baby a diamond ring,

If that diamond ring don’t shine,

He gonna take it to private eye,

If that private eye can’t see,

He’d better not take that ring from me…”

because, let’s face it, what better partnership can you have but four young white Londoners singing about smashing the system, built on the support act of a fifty year old black man singing about getting money and spending it, of self observation, of women and of acquisitions? Or maybe we've maligned them, these hollow men of the back-room. Maybe they saw the irony in such a pairing on tour, the juxtaposition of white working class with black working class, how the cultures, the values and the desires were different yet alike; mirror-images of opposites? Nah, can’t be, strike that last, what they did was just the ill-informed work of a bunch of illiterate wage-wankers…tour-tossers…money masturbators…

Hell hath no fury like a muso scorned...

January 30th – Depending on who you listen to, Stephen Stills was born in 1945 but that birthday could have been on either this day or on the 3rd of January. Typical of someone who was given supergroup-membership status back in the 70’s…confused? You will be…

This proclivity to create a tidal wave of gathering together musos from different bands and lumping them together into a so-called supergroup collections was born out of the high regard that rock musicians held themselves in (let’s face it, their vanity would allow them to do nothing else) and their fan-base level of ability that was prevalent back then, almost like modern-day opera claques the second these ‘rock-gods’ struck a chord the front three rows would swoon. So it was that musicians who’d already reached a high level of recognition joined together with others in the same boat and ‘The Supergroup’ was born. The likes of Traffic, Cream, Crosby, Stills Nash & Young (CSN&Y) (more of them later) Emerson, Lake and Palmer and Blind Faith, all contained members of what were considered at the time to be other groups who had reached the apotheosis of musical ability (how wrong we were) and this seemingly proved that the publicity and marketing departments could sell the dumb-ass record buyer anything (how wrong they were). The story behind the rise and fall of CSN&Y (Crosby – Dave Crosby, ex Byrds; Stephen Stills – ex Buffalo Springfield; Graham Nash – ex The Hollies; Neil Young – also ex Buffalo Springfield) should serve as a warning to those who would consider it a sensible plan to put four solo egos in band, send them on tour and then expect them to gel and behave in anything like normal fashion.

Almost from the get-go with CSN&Y problems arose as each member’s solo recording projects clashed with band recording and tour commitments, inter-band bickering (my album’s doing better than your album) further souring relations and then the on-going struggle caused by disagreements about work-load allocation and recognition for said work-load allocation…oh, and drugs (where would most of our tales of the road be without them) all served to make harmony between the members in this particular outfit, what can we say…?...well, volatile at best. I think things came to a head when Mr. Young buggered off at the mid-way point in the ‘76’ tour after several other falling’s-out and reunions, telling Mr. Stills he wasn't turning up to the next gig…on the day of that gig…and to go eat some fruit (a peach, I think).

There’s a line in a favourite Frank Zappa album (‘Mothers of Invention Live at the Filmore East’) where one of the sexual deviances on offer to the aspiring group member by a lass who refuses to be called a groupie is the opportunity for said aspiring musician to listen to;

‘…three unreleased recordings of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fighting in the dressing room of the Fillmore East.’

Not exactly a flattering use of your back-catalogue of temper tantrums but I guess, if you make it onto a Frank Zappa album then you can consider yourself to have arrived, even for reasons as wrong as this.

I've worked with a good number of what could be classed as famous musicians over the years (they aren’t they’re just ordinary folk with an ability…that’s all) both on stage and back stage and I can say, hand on heart there’s not a one of them who wouldn't share their last spliff with you if you were without but, if you so much as threatened to steal what they consider to be their thunder, would rip your heart out (the one I've just so foolishly put my hand on to indicate where it is…and which would be a particularly useful geography lesson for any lead guitarist reading this).

With that as a template, it’s no wonder that things go awry when the hothouse of ego, stardom, a ten-month global tour, recording demands and legions of hangers-on become the stuff of everyday life. Many, many musicians much like many, many politicians live in a world where they become one-step removed from the reality of life. As we all know it’s a short journey via just one small, pissed stumble from a nightclub into the field of beginning to believe in your own press cuttings…and then what’ve we got? I’ll tell y’. We've got the unenviable task of trying to control a six-foot selfish-machine who’s ego needs a separate truck to tour in and who wants no brown Smarties in the dressing room and no meat to be sold within 500 yards of the gig venue or they’ll not show up…a management situation much like Carl Denham had with ‘King Kong’ but with less planes and no tanks to help out.

What's the difference between a drummer and a gynecologist?

January 29th – Jesus H. Chrysalis, what is it with drummers…!? Huh? I mean, it’s not as though they’re a super-stupid breed is it? (One comment at a time, please) they don’t have a tendency to point at aeroplanes and are no longer just the band’s metronome are they? They can be seen out in public on their own and be heard as a fully-fledged instrumentalist on a par with the lead guitarist, the vocalist, the bassist…Oh, OK, strike that last one, just on a par with everyone else in the band except the bassist then… One only has to listen to the chops that guys like Marco Minnimann, Hector Lech and Navene Koperweis are cutting to realise that. So why is it that, of all musicians, drummers’ seem to be the one’s who go to the great super-group in the sky well before other band members…and with monotonous regularity? Drunken car crashes (very common) diabetes complications, brain haemorrhages, death by fire (on this day 1995, Ken Jenson of D.O.A. – apocryphal name for a band, considering his eventual outcome) drug overdoses (lots) death by motorbike (quite a few) pesticide, someone else’s vomit – oh, hang on that’s a fiction…isn't it? A total of 18 in 2005 alone…! With that sort of a longevity clause in your recording contract, I’m surprised anyone signs: 

Prospective Drummer. “What’s this?”

Band’s Manager. “What?”

Prospective Drummer. “This! Right after its written ‘…will have no input into the song-writing credentials of the band, even if the aforementioned drummer for the aforementioned band writes the lyrics…’ this bit about, ‘…will undertake to self-immolate, become lunch for a shark whilst recording album 2 (two) in the Bahamas or otherwise meet with a spectacular death before the end of the first tour so as to gain the greatest amount of publicity for the aforementioned band. No Lardy-Arsed, pussy-whipped demise will be accepted. Death, other than that stipulated within this contract of employment (under the ‘Short-Term Principles Guide No.7 Para. 18 – Line 12 through 13 regulations) will cause such a death to be null and void and all contractual obligations terminated.’ That bit.”

Band’s Manager. “Oh, that. That’s nothing. Just a bit of agency jargon. The sooner you sign, the sooner the first delivery of Ketamine arrives…”

Do those in management expect, after that kind of a sell, that the drummer is SO stupid he/she will just say, “Oh, OK, if you say so.”

I know drummers are considered flaky by other band members, that is if you can take any notice of what three or four ego-suckers say, but you have to ask yourself, ‘What is it that drives them to these extreme measures of tom-foolery?’ I can tell you. It’s having to work with singers (one of the only times in life when the arsehole is at the front) lead guitarists (the thing they have in common with sperm is they, too, have a one in three million chance of becoming a human being) and bass players (their contraceptive is their personality). That’s what drives drummers, these consummate musicians, to an intriguing demise and early grave, just having to spend time with those three personalities (and I use that term in its loosest possible sense). From the available industry figures it would seem the minute a drum set and the other band members arrive on the scene the drummer’s life-clock starts ticking. 

Probably just as well that, as a drummer, you’ll probably not be able to tell the time…

Oh, you Pretty Things....

January 28th – Whatever happened to The Pretty Things? I can still sing their track, “Don’t Bring Me Down’. Excellent record for its day (1965) done by a, seemingly, great band who were, also seemingly, destined for greatness. With Dick Taylor, born in 1943 on this day, on guitar and, eventually, Viv Prince on drums and at a time when the Rolling Stones and Fleetwood Mac, two bands very much out of the same stable (play ‘I Just Wanna Make Love To You’ – Rolling Stones, ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’ – Pretty Things and ‘Shake Your Money Maker’ – Fleetwood Mac back-to-back to get the grip) and with both these aforementioned bands just getting recognition, the Pretty Things always seemed to be just off the cusp. Their no-nonsense treatment of blues standards and a reputation for hard living (justified or not) meant they were a band to take notice of. Often seems to be the case; that the band most likely to turns out to be the band most likely not to.

All of us know bands that deserved to make it after a most promising start, as well as a list of those that didn't…deserve to make it that is…and for my money, the Pretty Things were in the fist category. They and several others of their time and ilk were the ones who made rock interesting…entertaining even. Who served notice on the suggestion that they don’t make rock stars like they used and laid the trail for Mr. Moon? Well, Viv Prince, Pretty Things’ (drummer, remember) set fire to a bag of crayfish on a NZ internal flight. Nothing wrong with that as I see it; just another day in the life of a rock star – probably fancied a barbie. Nowadays, it seems, most touring bands are tucked up with a hot cocoa at 23.00 after dining in on tofu and wheat germ spread on a crispbread…with plenty of healthy salad. Mr. Zappa would have a field day with that.

Oh, and on this day in 1968, Jim Morrison, of The Doors fame? He was arrested in an adult movie theatre after threatening a security guard; probably with one hand; always thought he was a tosser.

Answers to yesterday’s quiz: - Who Said?

1) “A vile, hideous human being with no redeeming qualities.”

Boy George on Madonna

2) “He looks like Zorro on doughnuts.”

Noel Gallagher on Jack White

3) “A little short ego-ed fucker who, I had a feeling, didn't like people of his own race and wanted to be white and taller.”

Rick James on Prince

4) “They are the dictionary definition of corporate rock. The singer is about as weird as Phil Collins. They are career rock personified. EMI should’ve signed Otis the Aardvark instead. At least he only sucks his thumb rather than corporate cock.”

Alan McGee on Coldplay

5) “He said he wanted to bring ballet to the working classes. What a cunt.”
Paul Weller on Freddie Mercury

6) “I get really tired of their pompousness. We've played some shows with them and they really treat people like shit. People treat them like they’re the greatest thing ever and they get away with it… They have good tunes, but they’re pricks, so fuck ‘em.”

Wayne Coyne on Arcade Fire

Give me an 'F'...

January 27th – ‘The Thick of It’ have a swearing consultant. Anyone who’s seen the series can have no doubt that the profanities used by the characters have reached a certain level of inventiveness and colour that sets them way beyond swearing. That’s where we’re at now in 2013, but it was only in 1965 that it was suggested that Kenneth Tynan should hang for using the word, ‘fuck’ on British television; should hang! That’s just 40 years ago! Nowadays you can’t turn a slice of bacon over at breakfast before you hear that word a dozen times, and it’s the same with films, comedians, music, books (remember the furore over D.H. Lawrence’s ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’? – published in 1928 but only allowed into the hands of rain-coated bookworms in 1960 after questions in the House of Parliament and a ruling by a top judge?) 

Was it only after music became more and more the property of the working classes did the incidence of swearing in the songs recorded by these working class performers increased exponentially…? my God, there’s a query to start a debate and probably, at my next book signing, get me stoned – that’s as in ‘Large pieces of masonry thrown at a hated person’ rather than ‘A gentle release into a parallel universe brought about by the inhalation of herbs’, you understand.

All language taboos are gone now, and I believe I’m right in saying there was a U.S. grunge band called, ‘Anal Cunt’ gigging and recording in the 90’s and releasing some very suspect stuff; those with greater musical knowledge than me will soon put me right, I’m sure. So, you’d think that a band considered to be as ‘out there’, as ‘street’ and, ‘as dangerous’ as The Rolling Stones (not from me, you understand; never liked them, never will…except for the track, ‘Gimme Shelter’, and I prefer ‘Thunder’s’ version of that) that a band with a social back-catalogue which included ‘break a butterfly on a wheel’, drug arrests, apocryphal stories of mixing chocolate and sex (not a true tale but making great copy for years) you’d think when such a band got the chance to insult a fellow performer the dictionary of profanity would be rewritten with choice slander and witticism. I mean, not only were they rock ‘n’ roll but they were also university educated…and they did; they surpassed themselves. In 1964, on this day they, ’caused a furore in the British press’ and ‘lost the trust of the BBC’ (shock-horror) when they appeared on ‘Juke-Box Jury’ (a weekly panel show on BBC 1 where invited personalities from the entertainment world judged the latest single releases into the pop world) and called Elvis Presley’s latest single, wait for it….‘dated’. That’s what caused the furore and lost them trust.

That’s not an insult! It’s just impolite, middle-class behaviour; lazy, understated mediocrity in the extreme. So, with that in mind, and to prove there is still a level of creativity and venom in the judgement of one pop star over another, I offer the following selection for you to mull over:

1) Who was Boy George talking about? 

“A vile, hideous human being with no redeeming qualities.”

2) Who was Noel Gallagher talking about? 

“He looks like Zorro on doughnuts.”

3) Who was Rick James talking about? 

“A little short ego-ed fucker who, I had a feeling, didn’t like people of his own race and wanted to be white and taller.”

4) Who was Alan McGee talking about? 

“They are the dictionary definition of corporate rock. The singer is about as weird as Phil Collins. They are career rock personified. EMI should’ve signed Otis the Aardvark instead. At least he only sucks his thumb rather than corporate cock.”

5) Who was Paul Weller talking about? 

“He said he wanted to bring ballet to the working classes. What a cunt.”

6) Who was Wayne Coyne talking about? 

“I get really tired of their pompousness. We’ve played some shows with them and they really treat people like shit. People treat them like they’re the greatest thing ever and they get away with it… They have good tunes, but they’re pricks, so fuck ‘em.”

I’ll post the answers tomorrow…

That's no way to treat an accountant...

Jan 26th – There are, in certain circumstances, levels of excess, violence and shock-tactics on display in the rock ‘n’ roll arena that sometimes beggar belief. Drive-by shootings of fellow but competing musicians, band management dumped for someone better, spike-speak for “the girl the lead guitarist is shaggin’”…(didn’t McCartney want Lee Eastman–father-in-law track record rather than Alan Klein–rock band management track record to manage the Beatles…and wasn't he Linda’s dad…and didn't this lead ultimately to the break-up of the Beatles? Discuss)…band members with a weak personality and low-ego problems (or L’ego as it’s known) egged on (or L’eggo-ed on?) by fellow musicians and ‘friends’ to o.d. on whatever the drug of choice is at that particular moment in time…? As an aside, I don’t think band-folk would be so keen to take a drug to such an extent that it kills them if that drug was Exlax, do you? Sorry, I digress… 

What intrigued was that, with all the possible routes one could take to reach brain-scrambled oblivion, meet one’s maker or get a season ticket to the seat-belt farm, refusing a royalty cheque definitely didn't figure on my horizon. Yours? Well, that’s what Peter Green did back in ‘77’.

Now, OK, so, he had an air rifle with which he threatened the accountant trying to deliver the royalty cheque and, I guess, the accountant didn't know what type of gun it was and could probably have felt threatened by it – explosive-haired, sartorially challenged man with six-inch long finger nails brandishing a gun and approaching you at a trot yelling, “GET AWAY FROM ME!”… OK, I’ll give you that, but you have to say, given Peter Green’s declared social stance and his gentle, shy nature, anyone with even a slight understanding of the rock world (and, I mean, he was the accountant for Mr. Green) would have known there was nothing to fear from the writer of ‘Man of the World’, but then, accountants…huh?

I guess the massive dose of LSD he took in Munich (Mr. Green not the accountant) given to him, by “a very suspect group of people” but who referred to themselves as ‘fans’, didn't help to smooth out his mood-swings, and that begs the question; where were all those people who were supposed to be looking after him? Those people who had clung around him when he was famous? Where were his support team, his management team, publicist, personal trainer, tour-booker, minder and myriad friends? Funny how many of those people are around when the groupies, drugs and booze are on tap for free but never seem to be about when the really bad shit starts to happen…?

Like leeches to the touch of a lighted cigarette end, I figure by far the larger number shrivelled away as soon as Mr. Green became inconvenient. Always seems to be a troupe of folk ready to supply the talent with wide-awakes and sycophantic applause whilst he/she is a money maker and shakin’ it; different story when the coke-cloud drifts away under the glare of sunshine from the next best thing. 

This air-rifle incident led to Green being sectioned and, although come-backs have ensued, I still feel he never had the chance to fulfil his promise; not the promise of further fame and fortune, just the promise that so many deserve and never get; the promise of being at peace with oneself and of living a contented life of their own choosing. 

It never ceases to amaze me, in almost every case of a famous musician succumbing to the demon drug, how those around his/her constellation never work as hard at putting a brake on their supposed idol's habit as they do in getting the next fix organised. Why is that? Bitter? Me? No, not at all…

I name you an idiot...

January 25th – What is it with pop people in particular? I mean, we all know of many folk who inhabit what we laughingly refer to as normal society and yet who lose all and any ability to differentiate between ‘sweet’ and ‘stoopid’ in regard to their children, but with those in the celebrity limelight it seems to be de rigueur to become brain dead the minute a child makes an appearance into their lives and a name has to be chosen. Is it a badge or some sort of right of passage they feel they have to go through in order to claim membership of this Club of Crassness? A case in point.

I thought that Todd Rungdren’s child’s name of Rebop was bad enough, but when Grace Slick (of Jefferson Airplane – ‘White Rabbit’ fame) gave birth to a girl on this day in 1971 and, together with the father, Paul Kantner (of Jefferson Airplane – ‘Drugs Good/Drugs Bad’ – Jefferson Starship – ‘We Built this City’, top-ten contender for the most fatuous pop song ever written fame) decided to call their daughter ‘God’…? Well… Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d not like to enter the Gladiatorial arena that is the modern-day children’s playground if I operated under the moniker of God. Most school playgrounds are the child’s equivalent of that scene in ‘A Man Called Horse’, where he runs the gauntlet of the club-waving Sioux in order to become a warrior; trust me, with that as an everyday right of passage, the last thing a kid needs to be saddled with is the name, God. 

Or is it that, with the sort of money most of them earn, they reckon the school their sprog will go to will be so selective that the name calling, teasing, bullying and brutality most of us had to endure, even with a name as everyday as Peter, will not happen to their little blessing? Or maybe it’s that the name, God, will not stand out amongst other children from similar backgrounds and who are labouring under the name of ‘Hurricane’ or ‘Burger’ or ‘Fedora’ or ‘Sanity’ (all real names picked by seemingly devoted ‘sleb’ parents). They may have a point. Anyhow, you’ll be relieved to know, I’m sure, that the Slick-Kantner partnership chickened out and renamed their daughter China and, I guess, she was lucky; they could have kept that theme but re-named her Azerbaijan…or Tin-Glaze…

Barking at the buffoon...

January 24th – Career moves are always a bit tricksy in the music business. You never know if the fire will be as hot as the frying pan, the move a better thing than sliced bread, the fit as snug as a bug in a rug or whether you've just been sold a pup…or after two failed singles, you see your fellow band members desert you like rats leaving a sinking ship; like Adam Ant did. Do you know, I do believe, if I concentrated, I could probably write this whole thing in clichés…but at the end of the day maybe another time, when push comes to shove... For now, consider the career move of ‘The Ants’, Adam’s backing band as, on this day in 1980 they left Mr. Ant as one and joined up with Malcolm McLaren’s band, ‘Bow Wow Wow’.

Now, throwing your lot in with what can only be charitably described as a chancer of Mr. McLaren’s stature would, on the face of it, seem sufficient cause to relegate you to the hell that is ‘told you so’. Renowned for his collaborations with Vivienne Westwood (never did get her) and ‘The Sex Pistols’ (no lights under bushels with that band name…I don’t know about you but that sort of lack of subtlety would ring warning bells with me particularly if I was being asked to deduce the level of trustworthiness in a future fellow business partner from his choice of epithets)…anyhow, sorry, off topic again… A glance at the respective successes of these two bands is a useful pointer as to how we should all conduct decisions of a delicate nature (horse – stable door – bolted, come to mind). The C.V.'s

Adam Ant: - 

Nominated for a Grammy and won a BRIT and an Ivor Novello award and also had a couple of number 1’s and several charting pieces as well as having some influence on fashion. He has had and still has an on-going career (whatever you think of him) that has lasted for 30+ years. I know the recent photos of him performing in 2012 aren't exactly…flattering, but then, whose are? The photos of me taken in the 1970’s when I looked like a taut, Greek God, contrast sharply with the partially deflated space-hopper who stares back at me from the mirror these days, so what do I know? 

Bow Wow Wow: - 

Had a couple of minor hits and some influence on fashion before fading into obscurity…erm…that’s it…

It has been said (not by me you understand but by someone far less sensitive) that a bad career move in the music business is just being female, but that aside for further discussion, given those two choices above which would you say has turned out to be the better career move? Would it be: -

1) Joining a band that has the name of ‘Bow Wow Wow’, is fronted by Mr. McLaren and remembered most for a wholly unoriginal song, ‘I Want Candy’ which, like nearly all of Tarentino’s films uses the word ‘referencing’ as its legitimacy…(that reads very pissily of me; wasn’t meant to. I’m not a massive Tarentino fan but do admire some of his set pieces, and anyone undertaking any artistic enterprise cannot but help be affected by what’s gone before, what’s floated their particular boat. It’s when the central tenet of the work is flaunted as a ‘reference’, which is probably coded speak for, “We couldn't be arsed to create our own so we stole this one” that I get…well, pissy actually)…sorry, off topic again… sorry…back onto Bow Wow Wow and their wholly unoriginal song, ‘I Want Candy’. It featured as ‘referencing the Bo Diddley beat’ (although, I have to say, it reminds me more of Cliff Richard’s single ‘Willie and the Hand Jive’, the title of which sounds suspiciously like the result of an overuse of one-handed literature and was in fact also a Johnny Otis retread)

Or: -

2) Staying with a band that has the name of ‘Adam Ant’ and that rose to stardom.
From the preceding it would seem an easy choice. Well, not so fast there, pardner; let’s just re-consider ‘Bow Wow Wow’ and ‘Adam Ant’… 

You see, in the pop world, it’s all about perception, personal perception; people’s personal perception; of your style, of your cool rating. It’s the building blocks of a career in the pop/sleb world. It’s what ‘OK’ and ‘Hello’ magazines have based their whole existence on. They love to feature the stars as they expose their blubber, hirsute pubic arrangements, liver contamination levels, underarm grizzly bear look-alike status, off-the-bedroom-floor fashion choices and illogical ‘situation appraisal’ abilities (and we love to read about it). Of course, that level of personal press intrusion wasn't around back in 1980, but that's no excuse. There were sufficient signs and signals surrounding the perception of cool to make any normal buyer beware. Things you pick up by default through living a normal, everyday life BEFORE you become famous; being able to spot the booby-traps BEFORE they blow your knackers off; relying on your own judgement and being able to make your own decisions BEFORE you hand that responsibility on to someone else…and yet in spite of all that supposed knowledge and street awareness you think it’s super-cool to name your band ‘Adam Ant’…?

Now you may say, 

“Peter, you've got it all wrong. ‘Adam Ant’ is an adaptation, a reference if you like, of ‘Adam Adamant’, a 60’s TV series revolving around a swashbuckling, sword slinging, cloak wearing handsome devil of a creation that was as suave as a really suave thing…”

Or you may say, 

“If you were as left-field and as hep as you obviously think you are, Peter, you boring old curmudgeon, you’d know he/it is a nod to the Ant People, a reference if you like to the Hopi legend about the Sky God Sotuknang destroying the homes of the benevolent Ant People by fire…”
Or: -

“What have you been doing these past sixty years, Peter; hibernating? It’s a hat’s off, a reference if you like, to Henry Pym, the scientist-come-super-hero out of the Marvel comics.”

But, you see, all the cleverness, arty objectifying or recognition of an iconic past (or ‘referencing’ as some like to call it) in the world can be individually misread; personal perception, mark me on it, personal perception. 

Bow Wow Wow, to me, is the sound a dog makes; demanding, playful, teasing, fun. No disrespect but, to me, Adamant is and always will be the name on a porcelain urinal…honest.

Could you just play that one more time, please?

January 23rd – ‘Stairway to Heaven’ played continuously for 24 hours…? Don’t know I could take that. Even now, when I hear it, I think it’s just a parody of itself, like a Chipmunks version of ‘All day And All Of The Night’. The radio station in Albuquerque that did just this very thing on this day in 1991 (over 200 hundred times it was played) elicited a fairly robust response from listeners and the police, even though their reason was innocuous, but then…coppers…? Same the world over. However, by now you’ll have an idea of how my mind works…is there a music track I could listen to non-stop for 24 hours and not find myself either on a funny-farm or hairless at the end of the time period? Well, yes actually: So, for your delectation and in preparation for your next get-together over the canapés, here are the ten music tracks, in no particular order, that I COULD actually listen to for 24 hours and then, on the following day, put them on again and feel no after effect. Oh, and BTW, these aren't my favourite tracks (my ‘Desert Island Disc’ selection, some of them may well be but that’s for December, and that’s another list altogether) these are just ones that never, ever fail to illicit a response within me, stir summat that makes me weep or scream or just say, “Fuck, yeah!”…

 1) ‘Mob Rules’ – Black Sabbath – Superbly crafted piece of rock music with lyrics that resonate through the years. Excellent drum-and-bass work, whole band as tight as a tick.

 2) ‘Show Goes On’ – Bruce Hornsby – Wonderful piano work, excellent studio mix and lyrics that encapsulate what it’s like to be human and mortal.

 3) ‘Water of Love’ – Mark Knopfler (live) – Apart from reasons too personal to go into here, it’s just a master class in guitar familiarity and emotion. Goodness me, I’m welling up at the thought of it…

 4) ‘I’ll Drown in My Own Tears/When Something is Wrong with My Baby’ – Joe Cocker and The Mad Dogs and Englishmen – We've done this (see yesterday). Nothing to add except to say, if you want to know what it’s like to play in a live band and haven’t yet had the pleasure the  this album is for you.

 5) ‘Speed of Light’ – Joe Satriani – Technical ability aside, it’s just a superb piece of high-octane happiness that cannot fail to bring a little light into your day. Trust me, put on your toast and tea first thing in the morning and play it LOUD; it’ll set you up for the next 24 hours.

6) ‘PCP’ – Manic Street Preachers – Poetry, political comment and rock ‘n’ roll all in the same four minute track. They've been as good but never been better than this.

 7) ‘In Your Eyes’ – Peter Gabriel – Superb production values that lift this song into a different league. The layers, shading and colour make it one that I could never tire of even though at EVERY hearing, inside, I’m a tear-stained wreck...

 8) ‘Technical Difficulties’ – Racer X – This does the trick for me, if only to give me an opportunity to get the damn drum patterns right….

 9) ‘Mustard Fields’ – Talvin Singh – I've used this as a trance inducer for my yoga on many occasions; could happily meditate to this for 12 of the 24.

 10) ‘Our Kate/The Welcome Home’ – Kathryn Tickell – Tears and dance in the same piece of music. Emotional landscapes and lost dreams all painted in vibrant colours…for those who would hear.

Back out in the mid-day sun...

January 22nd – The film of possibly one of the very best live albums ever recorded, ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’ (MD&EM) opened in London today in 1971; the visual record of the Joe Cocker and pick-up band album that caused so much trauma for band members and tour crew alike. Fuelled by substances both illicit and legal (there was talk they didn't need a plane to fly from gig to gig) for me at least, it became the standard by which I judged all future live recordings. Why? Because the vinyl release was given over to the public warts-and-all, something that, in this CD/Download, everything-is-perfect age, is unheard of. 

Believe me, far from being proof of sloppy recording technique or poor musicianship, recordings containing mistakes made by the band in live situations are your doorway into the heart of their performance; really. I’m not talking about a shit show full of crap playing all overdosing on ego, I’m talking about the odd dropped note, missed drum beat, out of tune harmony, flash of unintentional feedback; the odd glitch that suddenly makes the performer ‘human’. Something that is anathema to publicists, agents and managers, that the 'talent' become one of us, fallible, open to misjudgement, self-mismanagement and sudden inability. There's no shame in it, y’ know. In most cases, these mistakes are just fatigue faults and concentration lapses...but I'll give you, in the case of the MD&EM gigs, other causes may have been responsible too. That’s where the stumbling block is really between performer and backers, when the over enhancement of so-called performance enhancing substances is shrugged off by the folk who are making the money. 

Pink Floyd’s album, ‘The Wall’, and the ‘Comfortably Numb’ track portrayal in the movie is very close to the truth–back to this in a bit–where the bank (aka talent) is coerced into a continuation of the same old same old by the bankers (aka agent, manager, publicist, promoter). That kind of thinking was certainly much in evidence on the MD&EM tour, when the money-men demanded Mr. Cocker fulfil his contractual obligation to them, even in his advanced state of pre-tour exhaustion and known level of substance help. Not too big a jump to guess the tour just ramped up his alcohol and drug problems to what they later became; (cut to ‘The Cow Sheds’ at Stafford where I and about 150 other people saw a very drunk Cocker–post MD&EM tour–give a storming show; absolutely peerless. There he was still flogging the circuit even then after all that fame…my God but the music business is a shitty business at times…the waste, the wasting, the wasters, the wastrels).

I remember doing a gig at the Cofton Country Club, just outside Brum back in the late 60’s. I can’t remember the headline band’s name (we were supporting…again, but I know they were a top-line act, American) what I do remember is the drummer taking his ‘daily vitamin dose’ in our shared dressing room with the help of the band’s tour manager and then being helped on and off the tour bus and on and off his drum stool by the other band members. ‘Not long for this world.’ we all thought at the time and not a great advertisement for the ‘Joe Cocker School of Touring’ either.

With that as a foundation for this chat (didn't Clapton, when asked the question, “Do drugs make you play better?” reply, “No, they just make you think you do”?) and I guess it sounds callous to think the sacrifice of our heroes is only there for our self gratification; certainly would be true in Roman times but in 2014...? Callous? I beg to differ. The path people choose to tread is not defined by the map-maker. In whatever condition Joe Cocker and the members of ‘Mad Dog’s and Englishmen’ arrived at the Filmore East (and put onto vinyl and thence into my musical siding in 1970) they gave the recording engineers their audacity, the show its creativity, the performers their humanity…and me the feeling in my breast, particularly when I hear their medley ‘I’ll Drown in My Own Tears’, its sensibility. For that I’ll always be grateful.

Stack ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap:

January 21st –The Kingston Trio’s version of ‘Tom Dooley’ was certified as a U.S.A. ‘gold record’ this day in 1959 and, back then, that really counted as summat. Gold record status was only doled out in the U.S. to those recording stars that shifted 1,000,000 units. Much like the stars of Hollywood circa 1930/40/50’s who really knew how to be a diva and how a diva should act whilst the modern-day diva is just an unpleasant little shit, the bands and solo artists of the 50/60’s knew they had to shift the million units, pull in the money to get their oftentimes fleeting reward of fame, stardom and future; and it was no good throwing a tantrum if you just fell short; 9,999 discs just wouldn't cut it; get over it and do better next time!

As an aside (here he goes again) in modern culture, pop star behaviour is, in the main, so bloody trite. TV’s out the windows, hotel rooms trashed, Rolls-Royce's in swimming pools...oh, OK, I'll give you that one, but the rest...?…all very violent stuff and so lacking in charisma. Those film divas mentioned above? However bad their behaviour they could only expect to get away with it if they did it with style…

Back then they had to manage and sustain a level of wit if they wanted to throw their toys out the pram but continue to get work. What they had to do in the first place was prove they were of value, so they worked like dogs and learnt the trade, much like the bands of the 40’s thro’ 70’s had to do; flog the circuit (for years) learn your chops, become a tight unit then, and only then, when those who could make you had an idea of your commitment, only then would someone take notice and offer you the possible, faint, distant chance of cutting a demo-disc. Like these bands, the film stars of the same era and before did the walk-ons, the studio-contract stiffs and the unsuitable roles until, eventually, they became a half-way bankable commodity; then and only then were they tolerated when they flexed their hissy-fit muscles. But these things weren't done in isolation or just because you felt out of sorts, anything you did that was this career threatening had to have greater purpose, had to serve the dual-purpose of gaining the pancake-ripper a reputation as a working actor not to be trifled with whilst, at the same time, endearing themselves to their fans and fellow workers as someone prepared to stand up to the financial/misogynistic antics of the big studios; in short, become a role model with chutzpah. When Tallulah Bankhead stormed onto the film set and shouted out, 

“Who do I have to sleep with to get off this picture?”

my guess is she elicited a good number of smiles on set from both techs and co-actors alike.

When Bette Davies gained her reputation as ‘an actress who walks’ it was tempered by the fact that she only got that epithet after she’d proved her worth by giving a performance like the one she gave in ‘All About Eve’ going on to cement her reputation by securing 10 Academy Award nominations for acting. In other words Davies, Bankhead, Crawford…? They really could hack it.

Today’s entertainment divas pale into insignificance against such giants. Nowadays they gain their notoriety of being a diva just by chucking a ’phone at a helper (wow, there’s original) or by getting pissed and calling the Jews out for a fight on just about everything that’s happened in the world since AD 01; childish, spoilt behaviour that is sorely lacking in originality and has a quotability factor of sub-zero (that was some ‘aside’, Peter).

Yeah, yeah, OK, but, you see, what comes out of all that for me is the ease with which reputation and ability is built in the entertainment industry today. ‘Stars’ are deemed ‘stars’ even before they've done anything. The build-up, tour and worldwide reputation is in place before the disc is cut (thanks Cowell, owe you so much) – oh, how petty was that? After I’d typed in ‘Cowell’ the spell-checker underlined it in red as an unrecognised word, gave me a list of word options followed by a list of operation options two of which were ‘Add to Dictionary’ and ‘Ignore’…guess which one I selected?) 

It’s like authors you've never heard of producing their first book and strapping the top of the front cover with the banner, “His/Her New Best Seller”. Superlatives are oft repeated and come cheap these days, so-much-so we've forgotten what truly is amazing…and another thing; why does everyone have to be the ‘new’ somebody or other? Why is it they can’t be recognised for being original? (Jeeeze, I could write a whole thesis on that…) Much the same can be said when comparing the pop industries ‘million sellers’ of yesteryear and today…see, back on topic again.

Up until the 70’s you had to sell 1000,000 copies to qualify for gold disc status, then it became 500,000 and then someone said, "but what about downloads, and advert plays, and film hire...?" My guess is the qualities required to achieve a level of artistic greatness will continue to shrink, become more and more a thing of distant memory, more and more everyday and the performer become less and less ‘amazing’ until we get to the point where, providing you have the right backing, if your gran buys a copy of your bedroom-produced caterwaul or goes to see your latest flick where you give a third-rate performance but have a look and cat similar to George Clooney, then you've got yourself a star on the Walk of Fame.

Certainly, as far as selling records goes, the advent of the CD (digital recording) has turned the industry on its head, and the elongation and inclusion into ‘sales’ of MP3 and iTunes downloads looks set to continue the trend…I mean, they even count the number of ring tones in the sales figures now..

"Hey, Hey its the..." Oh, sod off....

January 20th – The Monkees TV show was first broadcast on this day in 1966, an early-day heads-up that Simon Cowell-land was only just around the corner. They were launched on the back of the Beatles’ success which was accompanied with the vitriol the American commerce league felt for us Brits succeeding at anything better than them…well anyone succeeding better than the Yanks in anything really, but particularly us Brits. You only have to listen to John McEnroe commentating on any tennis match that has a Brit in it at Wimbledon or any other Grand Slam to understand that…I think it’s a residue from our burning of the capitol, banks and such back in the 18th century; typical Yanks, can’t take a joke. It was three centuries ago; get over it and move on! 

Anyway, The Monkees. 1966. They weren't the first but they certainly were the most reliable confirmation, if we needed any, that the only people who can successfully shovel shit uphill with little or no spillage are those working in the pop/modern music industry. We’d had inklings of it in the payola scandals and the Mr. Freedman accusations, but because inside information was less freely disseminated back then than today (the lying bastards kept quiet or paid off whistle-blowers…and the celebrity culture and ‘kiss-‘n’-tell’ piggy-bank we know and love today was just a fledgling) only the very few were in the know about the fiddles being perpetrated by the pop industry.

As a precursor to what we ended up with, ‘Top of the Pops’ gave a certain legitimacy to the level of stupidity contained within the masses with its miming credentials openly advertised and there for all to see; a useful pointer to the pop industry of just what the record-buying public would put up with. Bit of a double-edged sword though for it also gave a useful pointer, to those performing on this show, of the level of high esteem their fans held them in; of such things as ‘loyalty’ and ‘brand recognition’ and of just how disposable they were…’Top of the Pops’ one week, bottom of the heap the next…sorry folks, off the tracks again… sorry. Right, The Monkees. 

Well, in honesty, they started off from a poor position if they were out to win the loyalty or even passing interest of the music aficionados of Great Britain. On this sceptered isle lived a race of sturdy rock musos who could smell a fit-up at the drop of a Seeburg. Those The Monkees needed to win over, that would offer credibility to any band, had been reared on a diet of blues and rock and had given one of ignored in his own country, Hendrix, the recognition he so richly deserved; safe to say they didn't suffer fools gladly. As the band was a project put-together it was destined to fail amongst anything other than the pre-pubescent teens of Britain. 

The TV show was a massive hit (see, what do I know?) with speeded-up clips a la Benny Hill (unoriginal) – ‘zany’ humour a la the Goons (unoriginal) – mop hair cuts worn by all four (unoriginal and stupid) especially that worn by Davey Jones (the one Brit who was the original member and who gave the band a semblance of ‘credibility’ with the British public because, “’E cum frum oop’t North lad”).

 It has to be said, in all fairness, that Nesmith and Tork had a certain musical nous. Nesmith’s song-writing ability and post-Monkees film career showed a level of ability that should have protected him from membership of such a train-wreck of a band. Tork, too, built up a certain musical pedigree…post-Monkees…again (do you think someone was trying to tell them something). But I guess, even if you do have higher musical thoughts, when you’re put under the rack of the dollar and a chance to take a tilt at all that eager-to-please flesh…? Well, who amongst us wouldn't say;

“Fuck this artistic, living-in-a-garret-on-bread-and-water-whilst-I-suffer-for-my-art shit; gimme the Waldorf Astoria penthouse suite, a constant supply of girls (or guys) and enough pop ‘n’ chop to sink a small yacht.”

Well, I wouldn’t of course, but…