How pissed are you?

February 28th – There are lots of reasons to get upset with the stars in the music industry and lots of ways to advertise your unhappiness with them. You could stand at the very front of the stage wearing a ‘T’ shirt of a rival band, you could carry a placard at their concert with a pithy critique of their last album, something like, er…“Your last album had all the musical appeal of a donkey farting through a tissue-wrapped hair comb.” You could buy one of their albums and set fire to it outside the venue before urinating on it to put it out. You could wait for their record to be played on the radio and turn it off in a grand gesture of funk. You could spread rumours, like, er… “Darkness are just Barbara Streisand on speed”. So having got an idea of the veritable dictionary of choices and seeing how this thing works, how would you advertise your displeasure at a Ray Charles concert? 

Well, in 1977 an audience member decided that, as he didn't like either the performer (in which case, why go?) or the songs he was performing (did he think he was going to a Peter, Paul and Mary concert or something?) that he would register his disappointment by climbing up on stage and trying to strangle the blind Mr. Charles with a rope…! I’m gonna leave it there; say no more; just re read that last bit, work out the various permutations in it and then call me; we’ll talk…

Take the money and run...

February 27th – They all start out with the same intention, or so they say. “What does your music mean to you?” ask the interviewers and press corps when you become someone worth noticing, and the answers are trotted out as lines taken from the pages of ‘The Golden Book of Stardom’ and carved, just like pictures, into the stones on skid row by a UFO gun fired in madness from Jefferson’s Starship in a rage against the machine that is the soul asylum where Jane’s addiction was damned in shed seven despite being in dire straits…did you see what I did there? No? OK, skip on…

Yes...we hear them all the time repeating the mantra:

“It’s my life… It’s what I was born to do and what I do is my art… The music and lyrics I write, they are so precious to me… I want to alter the way people think... The work that I put out is part of my soul… The music isn't from me, it IS me… The money? I don’t do it for the money! I do it for its own sake… It breathes within me, this music, it creates the reason for my being… These songs are my children and, when I let them out into the world I weep at their loss and am frightened for their future…”

Yup, all good and laudable…until Pepsi come calling, that is…

It was on this day in 1984 that The Jacksons’ commercial for the above beverage was first aired on MTV and we shouldn't be surprised at their level of avarice, given what happened to ‘The Jacksons’ and what happened to ‘a Jackson’. However, there always is, for me, a level of naive surprise when the likes of The Who, Nina Simone, E.L.O., Buddy Holly, Cat Stevens or Thin Lizzy take the corporate dollar/pound. These are some of the bands I’ve actually cared a fig about and to find that all the ideologies I planted on them and watched grow to full flowering will now wither and die…? When I hear their songs – those anthems I sang written by those writers of lyrics and that I used as building blocks for a life-philosophy – now used to sell jeans (underpaid kids in sweatshops) or cars (oil-rich Texans polluting the atmosphere) or new-fangled yoghurt (laced with dubious taste exciters to keep us hooked) it’s not sadness but anger that fuels my emotions.

Some of those performers I don’t care a fig about – Herman’s Hermits, T-Rex, Donovan, Mungo Jerry, the Commodores and Nancy Sinatra…you expect it of them. You kind of expect them to be the first in the queue when the wedge of cash is held out by a manufacturer of some commodity or other. They somehow seemed to have no morals to start with, producing the sort of trite musical fluff they did, but the others? 
But then, is that a fair thing of me to do; to shoulder these musical heroes of mine with the responsibility for the success or failure of my own philosophical yearnings for a better society? Maybe they are ‘Just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band’. Maybe the success or failure of my view of Utopia is up to me to make, create and set in motion. Thich Quang Duc, Wang Weilin Tiananmen Square tank-stopper, Emily Wilding Davison…? They've probably never heard of Neil Young or Rush (Ms. Davison for sure) and still they acted according to their conscience and the tenets that form the core of what it is to be human. So what does it matter if these singers of the songs of my life turn out to be paper tigers whose work is as ephemeral as a snowflake? Well actually quite a lot. You see, I don’t actually like Pepsi…or Coca-Cola, nor what they stand for so…

Ours on a platter...

February 26th – It was on this day in 1955 that, for the first time since their inclusion in the recording industry, the sales of 45’s overtook the sales of 78’s. I can sense the shaking of heads as some re-read that statement saying, “WTF is that old coot talking about now? He’s lost it, he has, it’s gone…”

For the uninitiated, a 45 was a plastic recording disc that was seven inches across and was the standard issue for all recorded, modern music formats from it’s inception in 1949 right through until falling out of favour in the mid 1990’s. 78’s were ten inches across and reminiscent of a well-flung Frisbee, made excellent plant-pot holders if you steeped them in boiling water and were the primary distribution method of recorded music from about 1898/9 through to the mid 1950’s. It was also (the 78) the reason why the ideal pop song was three minutes long; not because of any artistic merit but because a ten-inch 78 disc could only hold three minutes of music; even back then industry held sway, just like now with the start of football and rugby matches delayed, specific horse races started at specific times or the timing of specific events in athletics, the corporate dollar takes precedence (more on this tomorrow methinks). There now, don’t you feel better? 

There’s been much said about the feel of music played on vinyl (do you think it could just be a nostalgia thing?) and there was a tendency from the 00’s to bring back music recorded on 12-inch vinyl, particularly for DJ’s and ‘Old School’ turntable masters. I was called on for three years to do the lighting for the UK Rastafarian DJ Finals (with a now deceased and much-missed friend, Lester Samuels) in Wolverhampton and I remember the deep and earnest discussions that ensued between the various competitors as to who owned what, what they played on what and where they tapped into supplies of the vinyl they used. These guys and gals...can I say that today after…you know…after thingy…? Whatever... these guys and gals used to get huge roars of approval from their fans and the dancers on the floor as each, recognised, ‘old school’ piece came over the speakers. The whole musical ensemble was mixed with the current and the obscure on CD, but it was usually the vinyl that gained the most approval (don't ask me how the punters knew, but they did) and so the most votes (roars of approval) led onto deciding the most successful DJ and hence to a winner. Wonderful times – thank you, Les.

Do I think the almost universal use of the CD will hold such a place in the music-public’s heart, hold as much appeal when it’s played in ten years time; have as much history attached to it? In a word; nope. Music back then was a ticket to a magical place, a place of equals, of change, of…I hate to say it, but a place of hope; in many cases nowadays it’s just a commodity…or is that just nostalgia talking?

The Prince is Right.....

February 25th – Prince…? Well, anyone who thinks the cruelty involved in wool production deserves a wider public forum certainly gets my attention. How did he come to that degree of understanding? Did he canvas the sheep, or talk to the serried ranks of winter woollies in the Sirdar factory? That would have been a worthwhile way to spend a couple of hours, locked in conversation with a cardigan who bleats on about the squeezing of the strands until the lanolin squeaks or the brutal, segregationist process of dying.

It never fails to amaze me how the extreme leftfield of beliefs stalks the world of pop-stardom and slebrity and, this is scarier, seems to score a hit on a regular basis; the obvious one is religion where deities seem to spring up like springing-up things. All it needs is a copy of some ink-stained tome found under a floorboard in someone’s attic (usually the attic of the founder) suggesting new members enrol onto a programme of revelatory mission statements that, at their culmination, will convince said member about the rise of ‘the human’ (created from the seeds of an interplanetary race of half humanoid-half ferret beings who live in the galaxy of Tharg) and that they, along with the two hundred other rich and famous members of the glitterati, are the chosen children who will be saved…and they’re queuing up to join. Yeah, right as if 1) some omnipotent being would choose a set of deal floorboards under which to conceal the most important document known to man and 2) that it would be considered sound thinking by said omnipotent being to start off a new race of humans with a choice selection of air-head slebs…yeah, right…

And it’s also interesting that to belong to any one of these groups one has to pledge a section of one’s income… I guess it saves embarrassment all round when the plate is passed in the church as you leave. That way, you don’t have to pretend to have something in your eye or that the crowd behind, all eager to give, forced you past the bucket without you being able to donate…shame. There we are, takes all sorts, and I guess that as long as these leaders of the chosen generation aren't demanding that their followers go out strangling coots or wilfully lambasting hedgehogs then we can all feel safe in the knowledge that they've paid their dues...all 15% of them. Thing is though that no matter how much these folk have it seems they will always want more; in the more extreme cases, cryogenic-ally more, but let's concentrate on bank accounts.

We've seen this recently with various pop well-known’s shifting their bank amounts across to some mini-state somewhere so they’ll only have to pay 20p in the pound tax because they only have 40 million in the bank and will only earn a further 8 million in the next twelve months…and forgive me but Prince is a prime example of this.

When Prince, or the ‘love symbol’ as he wanted to be known for a part of his career… OK, stop right there. Let’s just dissect that statement for a second.

It has been called various things, this symbol, and because it was deemed as ‘unpronounceable’ by many in the music press and wider, took on some sort of fantasy idea dreamed up by a ‘genius’ (we bandy that word around so much these days to the point where it's not worth the paper it's written on) and was named ‘the love symbol’. But, like the tale of ‘The King’s New Clothes’ let’s break it down for goodness sake.

1) If it’s been given the name of ‘the love symbol’ then it’s not ‘unpronounceable’ is it? It’s ‘the love symbol’; say it; go on. See? You pronounced it so it’s not ‘unpronounceable’.

2) The SYMBOL is ‘unpronounceable’ because it’s not a word! OK?

3) Its a mixed metaphor of mixed messages. It’s done to raise the user’s intellect far above that of ordinary mortals such as you and me to make us feel unworthy in the presence of a visionary of such greatness.

4) It has an inherent ability to confuse – verbal and illustrative trouser-rolling, like they use in the Mason’s.

These tricks have been pulled for centuries by those wishing to raise an invading army, it’s what battle standards are used for and it’s what advertising agencies use today to gain brand recognition, loyalty and membership into the lifestyle they promote…the club of cool. The symbol Prince used, this ‘unpronounceable’ symbol dreamt up by a 'genius', is made up by joining together the biological symbols of female (a circle with a cross at the bottom) and of male (a circle with an arrow facing upward on the upper right-hand side of the circle). The swirl on the mid-point of the cross where it joins the circle is taken from a medieval banner sign denoting the use of horse piss in battle…OK, OK, I made that last bit up, but it's just as relevant, the swirl is either someone’s doodle or spilt coffee, IT IS NOT MYSTICAL OR MAGICAL AND IT'S DEFINITELY NOT THE WORK OF A GENIUS. He's just done what so many other pop stars do; trying to reinvent themselves in order to make more money…like pressing the refresh button on your computer, you know? How can we be sure of this?

OK. On this day in 1999, Prince, or ‘unpronounceable squiggle’ as he preferred to be known at one point in his career, or genius (or any of dozens of other epithets used to cloud the facts from people) decided to do the terribly human thing and sue various websites for illegal downloads of his music and for using unsolicited images of him. There we are, the mark of a true genius; ‘by their bank account shall you know them’. Had the money been forthcoming he wouldn't have bothered, I guess, but ‘hell hath no fury like a pop star short-changed.’ And when the omnipotent one’s wrath had wreaked vengeance and profit from those non-believers what then becomes of a fair chunk of this re-gathered wealth; you may well ask? Why these popsters, these chosen ones use it to buy more real estate, send clouds of talc up their nose and prop up the bank balance of some leader named Zob or Yuwaratwat who has assured them that after they hand over their money, when they die, they’ll live on in a purple haze of foreverness with everything as it was before: no one’s come back to say different, have they, so it must be true.

The Blues; either you can hack it or you can't.....

February 24th – Was going to write summat about Eric Clapton getting a Grammy for ‘Tears in Heaven’ on this day in 1993 but thought it best to skirt round it…my usual risk of ‘foot–mouth–stupid’ come to mind. So, instead; Manfred Mann.

Never really liked their stuff, although they were quite literate in their compositions and choice of subjects for pop treatment, for me they became too ‘pop-y’ with ‘Doo-Wah-Diddy’ (which, I believe, ‘The Exciters’ had released a couple of years previously?) and then followed it up with ‘Pretty Flamingo’; this shift to the dark side was, it would seem, also too much for their original front man, Paul Jones, who left the band in 1966. Manfred Mann, the South African namesake of the band (he was the strap-bearded one on keys) went on beyond Manfred Mann to produce some interesting work as Manfred Mann’s Earth Band, but for me it’s Mr. Jones who attracts. Born on this day in 1942, Mr. Jones is the band member who interests me the most probably because of his affiliation with the blues and his ability to put a number over…and being a thoroughly decent human being into the bargain.

He tours with Dave Kelly, Tom McGuinness, Rob Townsend and Gary Fletcher (check their pedigree and prepare to be amazed) collectively known as The Blues Band and if you've not seen them live yet and you are in any way connected to the blues then I strongly, strongly advise you to go see them before they all become to old to tour; seriously, you’ll not be disappointed. They do blues reworkings (as well as some original stuff) of the very highest calibre and Paul Jones is an absolute killer both with vocals and harmonica; a killer. I've had the pleasure of working three shows with them over the years and although all three have been remarkable musical events, one in particular stands out. And can I just say that, under similar circumstances and with the usual diva behaviour we have to suffer from ‘stars’ nowadays, if the following events had happened to them there would have been traffic stopped, sirens wailing, ‘phones flying, screaming fits and a big thing made of it to the waiting audience; OK?

So, The Blues Band. The get-in and fit-up had gone, as they usually do with bands of this calibre that have been on the road for this long, smoothly and easily. The sound check was called for 17.00 and, right on time, the band…(there’s one adage that sticks in my mind with bands like this and which was used by the sadly-late but ever excellent Walter Matthau in that top-drawer film, ‘The Sunshine Boys’ which is, “A show is just another show, but rehearsals are important”)…the band members turned up on stage and on time, except for Paul Jones. So, sound check went ahead and all except vox was checked and tweaked then, at 18.00, the band retired to their dressing room (pub) to do their warm up routine; pints and whiskey-chasers all round probably. Come 19.15 for a 19.30 showtime and Mr. Jones is still not on site, having  telephoned the other members to say that he has been in a traffic jam caused by the bottleneck of two lanes folding into one (on the A30? Coming into Cornwall…? Never!) and that he’ll be there as soon as he possibly can. 19.30, curtain up and the band kick into their first number with one of them, I believe Dave Kelly, poised to take on lead vocal duty. Outside, with no fuss, no fanfare and unbeknownst to the band, Paul Jones steps out of the car, in through the stage door entrance and arrives on side-stage-left. Without breaking stride he takes his harp out of his pocket, walks to the centre mic. and rolls straight into the opening number without him or anyone else raising an eyebrow or the band missing a beat. Nice. Pleasure working with you, Sir.

He closed off the Doors...

February 23rd – Did anybody else out there, not get The Doors? I struggled with them from day one. Was it just that they tapped into a time and place (done this before as a possible theory for the success of the undeserving) that made them so popular and I was in the other room?

Certainly Jim Morrison’s louche behaviour struck a chord with the laid-back, drop-out mantra of the times, or was it just that he was seen as ‘sexy’ and ‘casual' by the girl (and boy) fans of the time, welding together nicely into the phrase, “someone to have casual sex with”? Certainly his just–woken, tousle-haired photos that adorned much of their album releases ‘Honestly, this band and this album is about the social times and the political terrain; it isn't all about me, honest’) and the well-aired use of drugs and booze all had a hand in marketing him as a commodity to both the pro and anti brigades of the hippie generation; that may seem a poor choice of phrasing but, as has been said by many in the fame game; ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’. OK, in fairness, with his colourful background of ‘life in a dysfunctional family’ he can be allowed some leeway for his behaviour. Certainly fed on through to the other side as his ignominious death/s (depends which story you go with) via overdose, and the inexplicable inactivity of friends supposedly falling asleep alongside the fast-expiring popster instead of dialing for an ambulance, says a lot about just how laid-back our Jim and his friends were.

In 1970, on this day, The Doors’ ‘Morrison Hotel’ (‘Honestly, this band and this album is about the social times and the political terrain; it isn't all about me, honest’) was certified gold (their 5th…can you name ANY of the other four?) Just like the white-hat-waving Steve McQueen in ‘The Magnificent Seven’ taking the focus away from Yul Brynner in almost every scene, on the Doors album cover photo Mr. Morrison takes centre stage position dressed in a startlingly white shirt; all the other band members set back a little…and in dark colours (‘Honestly, this band and this album is about the social times and the political terrain, it isn't all about me, honest’).

And when you think of the all original Doors members, all seminal musicians in their own right, shoved into the background (Roy Manzarek – Robby Krieger – John Densmore…look ‘em up, see what they've done) you get an idea of the band priorities for Mr. Morrison…and then 'his band' (‘Honestly, this band and this album is about the social times and the political terrain; it isn't all about me, honest’). Post the ‘Miami Incident’ and the flop of the previous album, ‘Soft Parade’, Mr. Morrison wanted to guarantee a success; the workload was hard and dedicated but he got it. Critical acclaim! (The Doors are BACK!!!!! kinda thing). With that sort of success you need to capitalise on it which, in a way, he did...and then he didn't.

Didn't: His follow-up release to ‘L.A. Woman’ was referred to as ‘drunken gibberish’ so not so great.

Did: As I've mentioned before in these scribblings’ (January 17th) there’s no better publicity than to die young and make a beautiful corpse. 

Being discovered the morning after with a nose full of heroin and in the early stages of rigor may lack a certain beauty but his death, coming just a year (July 3rd 1971) after the release of ‘Morrison Hotel’ and ‘L.A. Woman’ was perfectly timed and certainly cemented him in the rock-memory… Not mine, you understand, I still think he was a poseur with a voice that often went out of tune, even in studio recordings with all their ‘fix in the mix’ paraphernalia but, as I've said before, what do I know? Look who’s famous…

Let's hear it for Mr. Pavarotti on spoons.....

February 22nd – I think we can agree, without fear of retribution, that to be a rock performer of any note you have to have an ego the size of Kent; what we euphemistically call ‘attitude’ these days…you know, where someone from the rock world beats their partner to an unrecognisable pulp or sets fire to the front row of fans and then the press talk about ‘their attitude’. Well, out of that ‘attitude’ leaks a far less pleasant idiosyncrasy; for all you fans on stupid-watch there’s a double-trick following. 
Now, Mr D. Bowie has made a couple of previous appearances in these musings (see Jan 6th & Feb 3rd) and it may seem as though I’m heading up a whinge-posse, so I’d like to state right here and now that I’m not. You know I raved about the ‘Ziggy Stardust’ tour and ‘The Man Who Sold the World’ album. But, as I've also written before, stupidity in all its forms should,

a) be noted and highlighted whenever it is found and,

b) is in the eye of the beholder.

So what do you think was going through Mr. Bowie’s mind when he joined T-Rex on tour on this day in 1969, not to sing a duet with the desirable Mr. Bolan but to perform…a mime!?

That’s like having Beethoven in your house and saying, “Don’t play the piano, Ludwig, just turn the radio on and make us some toast, will y’? …I SAID MAKE US SOME TOAST!!”

Don’t know about you but one of my favourite scenes in ‘Tootsie’ is where Dustin Hoffman walks through the park and pushes the white-face mime guy off’f the kerb, and that’s because I’m not a mime artist fan; why? Because even after this guy has been pushed over he still wants to live in this silent creation of his own ego… Even then the self-absorbed arse can’t fall over like a normal guy. He has to make a BIG THING out of the fall, like he’s at the top of a skyscraper. And then he exaggerates the stand up and brush down to a degree that just makes you want to throw a bucket of cold sick over him…and even then he’d probably go through a mime of scraping his finger through it, tasting it and finding an imaginary plate to scrape the rest onto before shaking out an invisible napkin, sitting in an imaginary chair and tucking in…I mean; DILLIGAF? Arse.

1969 was a time when Bowie was, seemingly, at his most productive, his most dangerous, his most creative. Given the platform of a T-Rex concert, all the beautiful people in the audience and his reputation for stretching the sexual and spiritual boundaries, what does he do for them? He does ‘a mime’… Thanks, David…arse.

Substituting Karl for Groucho.....

February 21st – You have to hand it across. Rock ‘n’ Roll can really piss folk off at times; so thank whatever god you believe in for that occasional little victory. Without many of the seminal works that rock musicians have produced over the years our education and understanding would have been far less, our ability to found movements for political change weakened and the opportunity and camaraderie to feel safe inside a community that was outside of the status quo lessened to invisible.

On this day in 2012, Pussy Riot became the latest victim of their desire to question (key word here, ‘question’. Not overthrow by bloody coup, slaughter the first-born of anyone with the name Smith…just question) question the operations and honesty of the Russian government and, in particular, of its leader Vladimir Putin. They did this seeming act of subversion by recording and releasing a record and video with the title, ‘Punk Prayer - Mother of God, Chase Putin Away!’ Snappy title, huh? Leaves no one in any doubt what’s going on here…maybe, given the outcome they should have called it, “Some in Government are doing a Grand Job, others maybe not so...’ and left the leaders and their sycophants to decipher the runes; they’d still be poring over it now, trying to square the use of the words ‘fuckwit’ and ‘bollockbrain’ in a verse about politicians and convincing themselves that Pussy Riot must have been describing members of the opposition.

The American, all-girl band, ‘L7’, have been putting the US government in their sights for years but, as part of a free society (parental advisory notice – inexactitudes being used) their work has gone largely unnoticed, certainly amongst the ruling classes. If they’d been Russian, with titles like ‘Shitlist’, ‘Wargasm’ and ‘Mr. Integrity’ and lyrics that leave no one in any doubt what their belief and beef is, my guess is they would've been shipped off to the Urals toot-bloody sweet.

The difficulties for folk in government when dealing with the real world and its problems are three-fold…yes, OK, more than three, but these three in particular.

1) They have no sense of humour

2) They are in charge

3) They don’t live in the real world

That’s it. From this baseline all other difficulties stem.

In the recent Russian example, add this to the singularly impossible task of amusing the Russian psyche and you have a recipe for disaster if you once try to take the piss…is it something to do with the fact that it’s so bloody cold there? I mean, Norway? Wet for nine months in any year and damp for the rest if it; with that as their starting point for having a sunny disposition you only have to read Henrik Ibsen’s plays to tap into the completion of the reasons for their unremitting misery and lack of a sense of humour.

Now, Pussy Riot didn't actually try to take the piss, they were just offering a prayer to the Virgin Mary to rid them of the pestilence that is Mr. Putin. Shouldn't they – the Russian Govt. – shouldn't they disregard this anyway? Didn't Karl Marx preach that "...communism should abolish all eternal truths, religions and existing moral principles..."? So, if it doesn’t exist how can they have offended anyone, or are we all Capitalists now? And if so, in anything even vaguely resembling a democracy (even in Russia’s case which does have a shadow of a fair society) shouldn’t those in power simply laugh it off? Why? Well because to do anything else just makes them look like an arse. It just draws attention to something that would pass unheard by the majority outside of the country in which the so-called crime was perpetrated (remember L7). It in no way threatens their position, either in government or in society as they’ve proved time and again that they’re omnipotent. They've got that sewn up. So, one has to ask again; why?

Well, you see, in any case such as this in any country in the world that is run along pseudo-democratic lines, it’s usually because those in charge feel in a precarious position because they rule not by the consent of the people but in spite of it. This makes them tetchy, feel easily threatened, their policies and dictates easily questionable and so, in an echo of a past decade, they ‘break a butterfly on wheel’. Overreaction is always their downfall and because they know only one response, which is ‘kill ‘em all’, it will continue to be so…and Rock ‘n’ Roll will continue to kick the ethical shit out of them.

In search of the cataloging lost chord...

February 20th – We've been here before, I know, but I still think it’s worth revisiting. I’m something of a rocker. Yes, I have an eclectic taste in music but, at heart, my one safe harbour is in rock… Is that because I’m secretly very angry about a lot of things? Don’t think so, rock just does it for me. Anyhow, with that as the flat-bed I have to admit that even withy my left-field idiosyncrasies one of my all-time favourite bands is Bruce Hornsby and the Range.

Don’t quite know how you classify their music…it’s a bit like Barclay James Harvest (BJH) – another of my top 20 bands – they are neither rock nor pop, not MOR or that terrible phrase ‘light’…FM, there’s a way for your musical back-catalogue to be remembered: -

Cut to c/u of sun-glass wearing, tight jean donning, long-hair styling rock musician with nearby girl fan. 

“Yeah, babe, you recognised right, I was in bands in the (fill in your own decade). What sort of stuff did we play? You mean you don’t remember?” He laughs forcibly. “Well…we were light…we played light…we were a light band.” 

That’d bring the fans flocking.

One handle on Bruce Hornsby’s style could be gleaned from the fact that, on this day in 1990, they won the ‘Best Bluegrass Recording’ Grammy for their recording, ‘The Valley Road’. Bluegrass? Hmm...not sure if that quite fits; but in fact does it need to? We humans have this sometime annoying desire to categorise everything, just like we do with novel genres and political allegiances. We have to be able to pigeon-hole everything we come up against in order for it to make sense to us, to not threaten us.

Well, whatever category you want to put him in, what can be said without equivocation is that Bruce Hornsby (and BJH for that matter) has/have an ability to create both imagery and yearning at the turn of a chord; only the musically dead would fail to recognise that. He’s one of the reasons I write, not because of what he writes but because of the emotion that flows through his work. Even though my literary efforts are piffling by comparison with the likes of Mr. Hornsby and BJH they are part of the fire and drive within me that make me want to write; to make a difference…and isn't that what music should do?

If it was a movie they'd just say, "He's irreplaceable, so who can we get to replace him?"

February 19th – I think, of all the twee and off-kilter diagnosis ever passed on a rock/pop star's death, one of them has got to be the wording on Bon Scott’s death verdict sheet. The coroner wrote: ‘death by misadventure.’ Now, ‘acute alcoholic poisoning’ and, ‘aspiration of vomit’ were also cited on that sheet so I guess we can say the coroner was not conversant with the ways and means of the rock world; an inclusion of those two facts would have made his death seem so much more rock 'n' roll but instead he plumped for ’death by misadventure’? Be an interesting statement to put on your tombstone: “Here by Accident”

As front man of AC/DC Mr. Scott, for my cash, was the forerunner of the screamer bands that are so prevalent now. To say he had a way with a tune would be a huge understatement and I remember, when I first heard them, thinking, “Why do they pitch their songs so high? That guy really has to scream the lyrics”. Obvious now, of course, that was the bloody point; all part of the AC/DC treatment. The adrenaline driven albums they produced, ‘High Voltage’, ‘Let There Be Rock’, ‘Powerage’, would never have worked with anything less than Mr.  Scott’s vocal rendition which, I like to think, reflected his personality.

Hard drinking, hard living and a sprinkling of natural medication all helped contribute to the personality of a vocalist who, by all accounts gave you what he was, both in performance and private. So, with that as a C.V. it was the news that he had died on this day in 1980 that prompted me to ask, “Does the replacement ever replace?”

Brian Johnson had this hard act to follow. He was vocalist with a band called ‘Geordie’, a UK glam-rock type band who had a few hits and some decent exposure throughout the 70’s, and AC/DC were billed alongside them when Bon Scott was strutting his stuff, so both Mr. Johnson and AC/DC had previous. After Mr. Scott’s demise, Mr. Johnson was enrolled into the line up and my guess is he must have entered that arena with a fair amount of trepidation even with his level of familiarity. We’re talking about taking over the spot of someone who has a statue dedicated to his exploits as a vocalist in his home country, has a grave that is in the top ten sites to visit for Australian tourists, has a hardcore…now there’s a word; ‘hardcore’. I come from a time when, if someone told me they were into hardcore I assumed they were a road builder working for Wimpey’s; time and a word, huh...? Anyway, Bon Scott, he had a hardcore following who would probably NEVER accept anyone usurping his place in the band…not even Elvis. So, Mr. Johnson was taken in and then, as if to rub salt into the wound had the unenviable task of working on and completing an album that AC/DC had already started making…with Mr. Scott. Bet that conversation was interesting. Having to fit into an already established band is hard enough, but having to work on a partially completed playlist, some of it already penned by the deceased member you’re replacing who had god-like status with the fans…? 

Well, that’s what they did, and the result? ‘Back In Black’. Probably the best title ever for one of the best albums ever. Chutzpah and hard rock of a standard rarely heard in the rock world. Must have been a Hallelujah moment when Johnson just thought, ‘I’ll be me; fuck ’em all. I can’t walk in the shadows.’

And in spite of thinking it was maybe just a bit unfeeling of the remaining AC/DC members not to pen a whole new set of tracks, by not throwing out the work already done on it, by remembering the album’s foundation and the route they had travelled to get there, Mr. Scott’s spirit was contained in some of the writing and music on that album; a ghost-glimpse of his remarkable talent and a blessing on and acceptance of his replacement?

Oh, and BTW, I wanted to put in something about the fact that this was the day, in 1995, when Pamela Anderson married Tommy Lee in Cancun and they went off on honeymoon, but thought it best to leave that to your imagination…

It's all in the mind...

February 18th – You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps… Talking about Pink Floyd, Syd Barrett’s replacement, Dave Gilmore was introduced to the public as a permanent band member today back in 1968. Barrett’s gradual slide into what can only be termed ‘a parallel universe’ has been well documented and whichever version you read, it all comes across as highly unpleasant for those around him. 

Like many out there and although nowhere near the same league as Mr. Barrett, I've had experience of head-moments so can say, in my case, that inside that mental cat’s-cradle of rocket-fuelled emotion everything seems far less chaotic, it’s just to outsiders that the sparking wires are visible; maybe that was similar for Syd because, from all reports, he was always somewhat difficult to work with, hence the occasional use of Mr. Gilmore leading to his eventual permanent band membership. So, given that ‘our Syd’ was the only sane person living in a mad world, maybe a Betty Ford-type sectioning might have helped him?

Certainly his waywardness could be partly blamed on his intake of LSD, but surely he had some level of predetermined mental difficulties that allowed the overuse of acid to do its evil work, not to mention the copious use of other drugs, Mandrax in particular, that surface regularly in all tales of Syd. But even if his condition could be given a name, I can’t imagine the treatment available in sanatoriums around then would have done anything to assuage his obvious illness; neither would what passed for ‘happening house decoration’ in the 70's, enough to send any perfectly sane individual over the edge. Being incarcerated, against one’s will and into a set of rooms painted bright orange and deep brown with silver foil on the ceiling and light green wallpaper decorated with freakin’ HUGE bright red flowers could hardly have had a calming effect on anyone so troubled.

Couple this with the hippie generation’s ideas of psychiatric treatment, where the slings and arrows of EST and benzodiazepine awaited the bemused and discombobulated inmate, it’s no wonder Barrett steered clear; mad but not that mad. Mind you, might it have helped if they’d said,

“You can bring in some of your own paintings, Syd, brighten the place up a little…”

Or maybe not. That one of the screaming mouth and several sets of teeth he dashed off? No, best leave it…or just send that painting to the psychiatrist instead with a note that read;

“Analyse that.”

The Dark Side of the Earth...

February 17th – What makes an album special? Is it just that the time is right, the musical climate is such that the tunes and lyrics tap into the national psyche? If so, can we dissect the success of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ (DSotM) and work out just what makes it so special...and does anyone GAF? Well, while we're together it’s got to be worth a punt, huh? 

Starting point: - In 1972, on this day, Pink Floyd performed a piece called ‘Eclipse’ at the Rainbow Theatre and, one year later it became one of the tracks on DSotM. So let’s dissect: the 70’s. 

Political climate was tense to say the least. Strikes, three-day week, blackouts and fights with the unions who flexed their muscles and were instrumental in forcing the Conservative Party leader (Edward Heath) out of office along with his cronies…and something they never forgot (Thatcher exacted payback in the 1980’s; the Conservative Party – aka  The Ruling Class’ – have long memories and bear even longer grudges) …decimalisation and a fucked-up currency, employment shaky at best, and Harold Wilson in charge; the man who was paranoia personified and began the circumvention of the press and BBC to bend them his way and on his terms (something that Blair and Campbell continued – no political allegiances here) and blatantly saw to it that friends were rewarded for services rendered.

Space exploration was stretching out to Mars and beyond, leaving the care of the Earth as secondary to this excitement and emphasising the profit to be made from our planet (‘Silent Spring’ – see January 9th – had not long made its impact). A level of hope in a fairer, co-operative future, the central tenet of hippiedom, was slowly being crushed under the weight of the cold war, Vietnam, the rise of Islam, international coups, the Munich Massacre and famines. In direct opposition to the hippie culture of the 60’s, Mr. Wilson’s ‘white heat of technology’ was seen as the only way to solve our problems and mass manufacturing and science was held up as our salvation.

The feeling began to percolate that what the ruling classes wanted was for us all to work ‘til we dropped for our (their) benefit. The ruling class’ level of madness was recognised for the madness it was but, as the 70's rolled into the 80's what was also realised was the dwindling possibility of the population being able to do anything to alter it. Death and desecration awaited us all as our reward for capitulation to the capitalist agenda…and you thought it was all about peace, love and bongs....shame on you!

As the DSotM track listing shows, the reason why it was and continues to be so popular is because it saw into the future; we explored this premise on its release, playing the tracks and deciphering the runes in clouds of doubt and disbelief…but we recognise the truth of Pink Floyd’s inscriptions now.

We could all be a contender...

February 16th – We all know that George Martin had a way with a tune, from the production side that is, and, although I’m not a Beatles fan (see Jan 4th) there is no denying that he and they could hack it. Some of the 60’s/70’s production values for some of the so-called fab four’s tracks are really high for now. 

To back up his perspicacity, what he said to the Beatles on this day in 1963, after they had finished recording ‘Please, Please Me’ was; “Gentlemen, you have just recorded your first number one.” and was he right? Yup. He knew it by instinct and that’s a skill that is rare and very valuable in the pop industry. And, NO, that X Factor fellow, Calloway or Callow or whatever his name is, he hasn't got it. He’s just a chancer. Anyone can have lines of wannabes filing past them and manage to pick out a few successes. That’s not a skill; it’s just an ability with a pin… What Mr. Martin had was a real gift of being able to work up a raw tune and make it something special. Whatsisname just pumps up the hype. Anyway, enough of thingy, onto important things. 

I got to thinking if we all might have a snippet of Mr. Martin’s ability. Not to be able to produce a hit record or memorable tune from the raw material but to recognise a hit when we hear it, and not in the global but in the purely personal sense? For me, and I know for you too, there are certain tracks that shake and stir to the point where, within four bars you know, you just know that this is one you’re going to carry. Now I know this is on a very personal scale, it won’t make you and me millionaires and your choice will be so different from mine, but I’ve strung together seventeen of the best musical openings for me; the one’s where I knew, within three/four seconds, that this was something special, that this one was going to tell me something about me and my place in the universe…then I made it really difficult and forced myself to chose just ONE. Now that was tricky.

The one track opening above all others that through the performer’s artistry and emotion, and the signature abilities of the producer, made this track part of me from day one…and still does.

‘Look Out Any Window’ – Bruce Hornsby – The sheer, watercolour majesty of that opening and the single, held note of feedback that drops into the donkey kick of a guitar slide and percussion as a lead in to the body of the song…a song that describes the swapping of the environment for cash by a careless city, this one does it for me every time.

Dead Ringer for...well just about anyone really.

February 15th – For those who didn't work out who sang the lyrics I posted on Feb 13th… Cliff Richard – ‘Move It’; and y’r rubbish…

If I try and remember, through the mist of my present dotage to a time when I was gigging in bands five and six nights a week, I can run back through most of the stuff we used to play. Amongst a sprinkling of our own stuff were covers of popular songs, hits mostly, as well as the most popular tracks from one band or another’s back catalogue. This was because, back in the day (?) the people who came to listen to us also wanted to dance (as opposed to mosh) and most of our own compositions were dance-challenging to say the least. This was the late 60’s early 70’s; a time of Hendrix, of Cream and of the 25-minute solo in the middle of a 40-minute song… Now although you could get away with a bit of flexible programming, if the band misread the audience on just how much they’d tolerate they’d be staring at a dance floor that was something akin to the Serengeti at mid point in the dry season, and if that happened? Well, put it this way, the management relied on the punters dancing so they would get hot; and? Buy drinks! Correct. Your contract at any particular venue would be short-lived if the bar takings dropped by anything more than 1% of average so, 70% covers it was, and danceable ones to boot…which we disliked doing for one main reason. 

The strangle-hold that having to play other people’s music put on delivering your own compositions meant you became just another cover band, one of the thousands out there so, if an agent was in the gig (and we’re talking about a time when A&R men from the agencies and record labels actually shifted their arse from behind the lap-top and office desk and went out to the places where real people congregated in order to listen to live music and sign up bands) so, if an agent was in the gig you’d be unable to convince them that your music-writing credentials marked you out as the next best thing if everyone on the dance floor just wanted to hear you play ‘Knock On Wood’ or ‘All Right Now’.

Nothing against those tunes, but when every other band is playing the same stuff…? Well we knew we’d never get a recording contract if we continued to regurgitate the same stuff everybody else was regurgitating; we’d just get lumped in with the crowd of also rans… Strange the way the world turns...read on.

On this day in 1969, a Florida hairstylist (Vickie Jones) was arrested for impersonating Aretha Franklin at a gig. Now that’s a show-stopper of a comment right there, but clock this; her performance was so believable none of the punters asked for their money back! Got to be the very first instance of a tribute show ever, and from that tiny beginning has sprung up a whole load of tribute bands covering the back catalogues of the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, AC/DC, Queen…an endless procession of copycat wannabe’s all giving the paying public an experience of the real thing. 

Got to admit, never thought I’d see it. That a band would prefer to be someone else rather than be themselves, the absolute reverse to the vibe I went through. But in the end folk will pay to watch these copycats because the performer is dead, vis-à-vis Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Free, and the recordings of their faves that they've collected cherish and play daily just isn’t enough; or they weren't around when the original performers were active, vis-à-vis Queen, Led Zeppelin, Bowie as Ziggy Stardust, ABBA, or the original performers are either too old, too bored, too infrequent or too expensive to be seen on tour any more, vis-à-vis Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Elton John, Rolling Stones – Rolling Stones last tour; £1,300 a pop, you have got to be fuckin’ jokin’, Mr Jagger. So for all those followers of the original bands the tribute show is the only way folk can get to ‘see them’ on a relatively frequent, relatively affordable basis.

Now, although some of these tribute bands are very good imitations of the real thing, they're not my scene. I believe each band belongs to its life-time and to the time in my life so, when I think on the fact that I missed Buddy Holly or AC/DC or Rainbow live then I just accept that as a FOL. Some folk aren't prepared to do that now though and that’s why the tribute band scene and circuit is doing so well, in many cases better than the original; don’t quite understand that but what do I know? 

One thing I would say in an effort to shed this image you must have of me being a miserable old shit is that, in the case of tribute bands recreating deceased performers, it offers a chance for their fans to reconnect. To see a sell-out crowd of 60+ year-olds boppin’ in their bath chairs to an Elvis tribute, their heads filled with the memory of a time when they were young, a time when both performer and fan were at their fittest and best, to a time when they believed that anything was possible…that’s no bad thing. Not too much of that about nowadays.

HVD!

February 14th – Happy Valentine’s Day!

That’s it. No flowers, no card, no money spent topping up some fat-cat’s bank account, a fat-cat who’s making money hand-over-fist by flogging Valentines Day cards, Easter cards, Mother’s Day cards, Father’s Day cards, Get Well cards, Just Passed cards, First Sexual Experience cards…just made that up, sorry…although, give them time. 

So, this Valentine greeting is just a personal one from me to you. H.V. D. X! 
It’s just I get sick of seeing Easter stuff in the shops in January and Christmas stuff in the shops in August…don’t you? Indeed, the only saving grace about Christmas cards is that, in the most part, charities get money from them and you get to recycle them after use…miserable kill-joy curmudgeon? Moi?

These event markers (cards) are all about timing, I guess. The kind of timing that Janis Ian showed when she released her track, ‘At Seventeen’ and got hundred’s of Valentine’s cards on this day in 1977; a lovely, storytelling song that’s well worth the listen, it’s even been used as a teaching aid for young, educationally troubled kids…that was timing. Did you see what I did there, slippin’ an’ slidin’ from one subject to another….? That was good timing.

What was not good timing, however, was the double whammy of Steppenwolf, on this day in 1972, being gifted with the honour of ‘Steppenwolf Day’ by the mayor of Los Angeles, but not being there to receive it because they were announcing their break up in New York on the very same day, saying, and I quote; 

“We were locked into an image and style of music and there was nothing for us to look forward to.” 

Well what a fuckin’ shame. Such a piss-poor life you must have led up ‘til then; record sales of 25 million, eight gold albums, twelve hit singles, international first-class travel, five-star fuss, money, sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll, hero-worshipping fans, freebies all the way…gosh, I can see where the trouble lay, those storm clouds of yet more recording sessions, tours and royalties gathering on the horizon were they…? So difficult for you all; bless, I understand. 

You’d think, from the announcement, they’d been forced into the recording studio at gun-point. Spoilt rock stars, world’s full of ’em. Mind you, there was a certain amount of comic timing on display when their bass player, Nick St. Nicholas (shades of ‘Spinal Tap’ right there) turned up on stage pissed and dressed in a bunny costume and proceeded to play the set out of tune (yup, ‘Spinal Tap’…). They fired him…so, not only had Steppenwolf lost their sense of musical camaraderie but their sense of humour too by the sounds… (Bass players, eh? – see January 3rd). 

The only good thing to come out of this sad tale of the loss of a band’s identity was that one of their managers, a Mr. D. Pesnell, apparently put Phil Spector (see February 10th) in hospital for three days ‘cos they hated each other so much. During a ‘new-improved Steppenwolf’ recording session that Spector had taken charge of they had a major fist-fight. The charges against Pesnell were dropped when it emerged that Spector had instigated the fight…our Phil, eh? What a chump...must’ve left his gun at home that day… Day! I’ve just thought! ‘Steppenwolf Day’!

Yet another greeting’s card opportunity going begging…

The Devil gets all the best musical moments...

February 13th –

“They say it’s gonna die but, honey, please let’s face it,

They just don’t know what’s-a gonna to replace it, uh-hu-hu…”

You're not allowed to read further until you can recall the song, please...

Well done! Right, imagine, into your world of Bing, Frank and the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, stampedes the likes of Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis (clock the b/w video of him doing ‘Great Balls of Fire’ then tell me you wouldn't look across at your teenage daughter bopping along to it and go, “Uh-oh”). It’s no wonder rock ‘n’ roll got off to a bad start with these gyrating sex-models, and when the very first movie about the new craze, the shooting of which was completed on this day in 1957, was called, ‘Rock You Sinners’…? I mean, that film had Jackie Collins in it…!...yes, THAT Jackie Collins…a mega sinner right there.

Now, as mentioned before (see 12th January) we all know what the word ‘rock’ was a substitute for in most pop songs, don’t we? So it was hardly surprising, with eight out of the fourteen songs in the above movie having ‘that’ word in their title…and one other bearing the title ‘Stop it (I like it)’…that the status quo said, as one; ‘Shut up shop, boys, you’ll sell nothing here…’ No? Really?

In Great Britain, when the music of rock ‘n’ roll dragged itself onto our shores, it seemed we were more ready to embrace it. Maybe that was because we were getting it second-hand sort of, you know, that we’d had it drip-fed for a while before it took off whereas, in the States, they were experiencing the tidal-wave first hand and fearing for their daughters’ sanity, probity and virginity.

I think (and this is just me you understand, I have been known to get it wrong; once, I think…April 15th 1971) I think it may also have had something to do with the variants in industry and the numbers of working class people per capita head in both countries. Post-war we British were still living in a society built on privilege, nepotism and a class structure that stretched back to forever (still are to a point) and this meant that 80 to 90% of both land and wealth was held by around 15% of the population; the rest worked for a living in industry and manufacturing; shitty, dangerous jobs where the wage was low and the profit margins high...yup, just like now really. 

Not surprising, then, that the rise of the Teddy Boy was on a Richter scale of change for the older generation. Sartorial elegance wasn't just a D.J., dickie-bow and patent shoes now; elegance could be found in a drape coat, drain pipe trousers and brothel creepers. Just like those toffs who belonged to the Masonic Lodges we had our own uniform our own set of rules and behaviours our own initiation ceremonies, and while they spent their egos building monoliths for money, we spent our time bopping… developing the footwork that would allow us to dodge the arm of authority during the protests of the following decades.

My mum actually took me to see ‘Rock Around the Clock’…took me! She also made most of my stage clothes when I was in bands too, and pretty outlandish they were, so maybe a bit ahead of her time and not prepared to be frightened by the changing times, and this change in the structure of society was all-encompassing and became irreversible. Youth now had their own tribal-music soundtrack to dance to and you know what, over the years those steps gradually, slowly took us away from the idea that war was the only permissible expression of disagreement; but now look where it’s got us?

Look around at the changes since Thatcherism and stare into the bear-pit that is the Blairite revolution and ‘The City’… Time for another musical revolution methinks…and someone to make a movie about it too. The film title of the Rock ‘n’ Roll era being ‘Rock You Sinners’, my guess is the movie about this new musical revolution should have the title:

‘Oi, Shit for Brains! Fuck Off Back to the Waldorf and Snuffle up Your Last Bowl of Caviar, We’ll Sort this Lot Out in Our Own Revolutionary Fashion By the Revolutionary Method of Sitting and Talking to One Another and Coming to a Compromise…And When It’s Sorted it’s You and Your Full Belly Up Against the Wall; Enjoy the Revolution!’

Title like that should have ‘em boppin’ in the aisles.

In the pop world there's room for everyone.

February 12th – The band Kajagoogoo, the members of which to me all looked like their heads were exploding, could be considered a real puzzle from the pop world. Never before in the field of egomaniacle pop history have so many reunions been undergone by so few for so little result. With egos to the fore, the band's members pursued self-destruction and at one and the same time became the epitome of both crass pop and the ability of the British to be suckered into buying any old stuff if it’s groomed right and sold well. Riding on the breaker of Art Nouveau, the band released several singles under several different line ups, all of these recordings being instantly forgettable. Go on, have a go; name one… The music dweebs amongst you may have come up with ‘Too Shy’ but I’ll bet that was about it. 

A lot of the success of such bands relies very heavily on 3 things: the hype; the age-range aimed at; the continuing desire of some members of society to follow what is posited as left-field in fashion no matter how foolish it makes them look. Indeed, most fashion movements that infiltrate the working classes have to have a musical soundtrack to go with it (Rock ‘n’ Roll – New Romantic – Punk) otherwise it perishes very quickly. I guess it keeps the money swishing around, but the drain it usually goes down (and the sewer it settles in) is usually the bank account of some fast-tracker who uses the gullibility of wannabe's in order for them to buy their next yacht. 

OK, that may have been a bit unfair (a ‘bit’ Peter?) so let me try and make amends. Having dissed this branch of empty-vessel music to the full, I have to admit the plus side to this lemming-like activity is what we refer to as musical memories; and no bad thing either. We all became a member of the shoal variant that swam in our particular musical sea, and our belonging gave the members (us) the opportunity to grow, to stretch, to individualise and discover and, in the latter years of life, to reminisce with others who wore a cloak of musical respectability that matched ours. So, for all those who followed Kajagoogoo, accept my apologies and I wish you happy memories! But that’s not what this piffle is all about; it’s about another musical phenomenon, one you may not have come across before; Tiny Tim.

Those that know, forgive me simplifying. Those that don’t: Tiny Tim – American singer and performer – made his name in the 60’s - entered into the hallowed halls of hippiedom - long hair, brightly coloured suits and a way with a tune that set him apart from the flock and stamped his membership card into the hippie generation. But what was SO odd about him and his popularity was that, at the time of psychedelia (Hendrix, Pink Floyd, turn on, tune in, drop out, piss off) this forty-something year old man could captivate a huge audience and strangle a whole load of bucks by singing ‘Tip-toe Through the Tulips’ in a falsetto voice and accompanied by a ukulele...and get away with it…for years! Now, there IS a real puzzle from the pop world.

Having gotten away with this travesty of musicality, and like our very own Screaming Lord Sutch (passim) Tiny Tim used his slebrity and took a punt at politics endeavouring to gain the post of Mayor of New York on this day in 1989. Trouble was, his fame, as with the fame of many speciality acts, was short lived and his attempt at politics was a fairly futile one. I quote him directly, “I am intoxicated with fame and all its trappings”, and one thing is for sure, he had to be, pissed on fame that is. To enter the 60’s musical arena with a ukulele and squeaky voice when most bands sported speaker stacks the size of Wiltshire, amp volume settings that were at a level fit to raise Lazarus, were stuffed to the gunnels with guitar wielding showmen with hair and egos to match and fronted by vocalists who screamed their vocals into ranks of SM58's, shows a level of chutzpah that deserved at least some recognition; which, up to a point, he got. A trouper to the end it was on stage at a ukulele festival (gosh, I wanna go there; you?) that he suffered his second heart attack (you surprised) from which he never recovered. 

On a personal note, I've always believed that the difference between a mouse and a ukulele is that no one blubs when you stamp on a ukulele.