Thank God you were here......

March 31st – OK, here’s the scenario. You’re out with your mates on a night out, you've had a couple of tonic waters (no piss-head antics for you, you’re a serious guy/gal who has 'knowledge') and you’re feeling good about the night to come. You reach your destination, take your place in the arena of entertainment when, of a sudden, you are faced with the power of evil; yup, the Devil hisself!

You suspected he might be there but kinda hoped your night-out would be demon-free. The trouble is YOU are the only person who knows it’s him; the real one, the gen-you-iyne horn-ed beastie, he of 636 fame, Beelzebub, Satan, X-Factor judge, Loo-see-fur…so, what are you going to do about it?

You can’t tell your friends, they wouldn't believe you. With the level of alcohol they've consumed they hardly know who they are, you’d just waste time in the explanation…and time isn't something you've got plenty of, not if you want to stop the destruction of all you hold dear; crème brulee with a strawberry and rhubarb base, crispy pork crackling, home-made marmalade spread thickly on hot-buttered toast… No, you’re going to have to handle this one on your own, buddy.

You search around for a weapon, remembering all those X-Men and vampire movies you've seen where something suitable with which to deal with the epitome of evil just happens to come to hand in time for the rich, handsome hero/heroine to use it and save the planet… 

There’s something to ponder. Why is it always some rich, titled, chinless twerp that’s preserved…? No, on second thoughts, who’d want to ensure the continuation of a life by embracing the lifestyle of a gutter-snipe urchin reared on a diet of drudgery and strife over the lifestyle of a rich, caviar-munching time of ease supported by a fleet of chauffeur-driven limos and lots of sweeties? No, I understand why now…right, back to the action…

...There are no magic-bolted crossbows, no silver bullets, let alone a gun to fire them from, and no magisterial support from a foreign nobleman who's studied the ways of the Evil One and so can shout encouragement from the sidelines; things like,

“Kick him in the goolies, that’ll slow him down!”

But wait! What’s this? Suddenly you feel empowered as you reach into your jacket pocket and discover…a penknife... 

There’s something to ponder. I mean, nowadays they scan you with detectors when you go into most places where crowds are gathered; imagine if this search strategy was in operation in, say, Dracula (not those endless rubbish remakes from the Hammer House of Horrors film studio I mean the original Bram Stoker work, now there's a real scary story) what if this search strategy was in operation in that instance; where would we be then? I tell you where; fucked. No crème brulee with a strawberry and rhubarb base, no crispy pork crackling, no marmalade spread thickly on hot-buttered toast…in fact the end of civilisation as we know it, that’s where we'd be, and all because of some overzealous security hack. So, on with the tale.

...You draw the weapon gently from your pocket and open the blade, carefully concealing both it and your purpose so as not to startle the Emissary of Evil. Then, with a huge leap you’re up and alongside him! The crowd gasps as, faced with you and your three-inch apple-peeler in your raised hand, Satan’s face registers fear, loathing and menace all in the same expression (imagine something like a gurning gargoyle or a 100 year-old Steve Tyler; that’s what he looks like) because he knows he's facing a worthy adversary… Satan raises his axe (Gibson 335, Cherry, gold pick-ups) to fight back, then, all goes black…

Now, I know that there’s much to consider here but, really, I mean, of all the things alluded to above one of them is really, really highly unlikely; I mean, who goes out to fight and slay the Devil with a penknife? Well, Mr. Lance Cunningham for one.

On this day in 1995, Mr. Cunningham stormed the stage…can one person ‘storm’ anything? Journalistic licence, I guess… so, he stormed the stage at a concert given by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant because he knew, he alone knew that Page was, in fact, Satan. Determined though he was, Mr. Cunningham was a bit off with the hacking and slashing, the result being that Satan Page escaped his nemesis…but four audience members were injured in the process. 

So there you have it. Keep a watchful eye open ye brothers and sisters of Buffy, he’s still out there waiting, guitaring, re-defining the 12-bar blues. Just make sure you keep yourself well-armed, a carefully concealed spatula or pastry brush may just be the thing that saves humankind from a fate worse than Rock ‘n’ Roll…

Close...but not that close....

March 30th – First musical influences?

Anybody?

Depends a lot on your age, I guess, and the preferences of your parents and peers.

For me, I have three. Firstly the voice of Beniamino Gigli, an Italian opera singer of the 20’s/30’s who was a favourite of my dad’s (I also think my mum got to see him in Wolverhampton when dad was away – a little disturbance called W.W.II kept him away far longer than he intended or enjoyed, I believe, so he missed it). Secondly the dance/swing bands of the 40’s/50’s such as Benny Goodman and Count Basie and the bands who used Messer’s Krupa and Rich as their drummer, and thirdly fledgling rock and roll.

I was born in ‘48’ (there’s an admission) so was ripe for attack when the likes of Mr. Presley and Mr. Holly and Mr. Vincent were strutting their stuff. Made a big impression on me, I can tell you and I had the good fortune to have parents who, although steeped in the vocalists of their day (crooners) and opera and classical, were in possession of a sufficiently open mind to accept that musical tastes change and the need to be appreciated and enjoyed for what they are by those of an age to appreciate and enjoy them. I've mentioned in these ravings of mine before how my mother took me to see ‘Rock Around the Clock’ so I was well into it…and then I discovered The Blues.

Dunno what it was about the sound, the lyrics, the feel, but I knew the moment I heard it we’d become inseparable companions; and that’s been it ever since that first encounter in…what, 1960/61? From this distance, I’m not sure who came to my attention first, could have been John Lee Hooker or Sonny Boy Williamson II. I guess, on reflection it was Sonny Boy Williamson II because, although by that time I was trying to be a drummer and the 12-bar pattern was a good starting point, what I wanted to play was the harmonica, and become as technically proficient as Mr. Williamson; and I got pretty good at it…am I allowed to say that? Well, whatever, try and stop me. I really did become quite proficient and I can remember the feeling of connection when I was able to play harmonica alongside the likes of Williamson and Sonny Terry; they were on a record I was in my front room, they couldn't hear me, I could hear them, but, these changes in time and space aside, we were together. With my taste in music bending across to the likes of Hendrix, Cream, The Yardbirds and the Savoy Brown Blues Band, who all built their reputations on blues covers and adaptations it’s not surprising the bands I played in mirrored this mesh of black experience and white interpretation. 

Anyway, all this thought stems from the fact that, on this day in 1914, Sonny Boy Williamson II was born. He died in 1965 and although, as mentioned before, I only got to hear him live on the Yardbirds’ album ‘Live at the Crawdaddy Club’, I feel I knew him through his music…I mean, hell, we played the harp together on many occasions.

'Til death, or the needs for a different arrangement, do us part.....

March 29th – Divorces and partings concerning the heart are never very pleasant, are they? There’s always a mess left behind with either hearth or heart. After the event and even in the most amicable of separations there will always be a flash of, “the bastard” floating about at sometime in the process even if, at close of play, everyone ends up being the very best of friends.

I’m reminded of the ‘coffee table’ analogy in ‘When Harry Met Sally’ and that about sums up what can happen. That the little things come back to haunt and we can become focussed on them, to our detriment it has to be said. I mean, be honest, who amongst us who’s been involved in a partnership breakdown hasn't secretly sat at home three years later and thought;

“That bloody book, LP, china ornament (whatever – you fill in the item) was really mine; I remember buying it; saving up and buying it. Bet he/she stuffed it away when I went round to divide up the spoils; hid it…worth a fortune now…”?

Hm? OK, just me then. Right. Well for those of you that don’t know this sensation (?) it can be debilitating if you let it get a hold. It colours your world and can make dark clouds appear on what is, under normal circumstances, the beautiful sunny life you now have; and this is just little things we’re talking about. So, imagine if it’s not a first edition Gould or some obscure recording of Rory Gallagher that we’re talking about. Imagine if it’s your whole career… Like Ike Turner. 

How’d things go after his divorce from Tina?

That’s right; not well.

How’d hers go after her divorce from Ike?

That’s right; much better.

Tales of her abusive partnership and the resentment that Ike felt for Tina, of her abilities and her burgeoning career, seemingly tainted his feelings for her throughout their time together. I’m sure Ike kept himself as busy (musically) as he could but try as I might, I can’t think of a single release by him post Tina; but Tina post Ike? ‘Private Dancer’ was just one of several album releases that have embedded themselves into the musical consciousness of millions, and her film work and seminal tours and performances of the 80’s still come under discussion by those who were there…and by those that weren’t. My feeling on a lot of these events is that things will happen only when the time is right for them to happen, but you have to kinda wish that Tina, as with many others that we know of, didn't have to go through the often-times painful journey to get there. 

It’s almost that, if you liken their post-breakup careers to the dissemination of the household goods and chattels involved in your own breakup (those of you that have gone through one, that is) then it’s like Tina left with the new stereo and her personal jewellery and left Ike with that metaphorical Capo de Monte tramp figurine that the mother-in-law gave them as a wedding present, so all wasn't lost, was it…

The yawning chasm of realisation that you're not as important as you think....

March 28th – Lots of folk get very twitchy over what are, in reality, detached events but they somehow feel, personally, they are somehow connected to them; the entertainment and sports’ industries have their fair share of such twitchy members…that came out all wrong but you know what I meant.

Folk develop an unshakeable belief that something they did and that turned out either really well or really badly was because their left sock was put on before the right, a sweater is worn inside out, the strings on the guitar were changed before the last gig by that person wearing no socks and a red sweater…at exactly 18:31 and 20 seconds…with the yellow-handled side cutters with the broken tip; the list of so-called unreasoned superstitions to success or failure is endless.

That’s got to be a residue from the days of survival and surviving hasn't it? Of trying to map out cause-and-effect through what were, back then, unknown circumstances; of us, with our limited intellect, trying to make sense out of a world we were just discovering? Of understanding things such as the reason you weren't attacked by a lion when you walked along this particular track to the next settlement wasn't because you put your fur wrap over your right shoulder rather than your left the last time you went this way but because the lion was sleeping off a huge meal of Zebu from the day before and so wasn’t hungry.

Typical case in point is not walking under a ladder. I mean, OK, if there’s someone up it with a bucket and sponge, or a hammer, or a grand piano held up there by a piece of twine then it may be that it would be wise not to walk under it; particularly if it’s a grand piano. But that’s not because passing under the ladder’s arch is unlucky or will bring you bad luck, but that increasing the risk of half a ton of grand piano falling on your head by walking under it is an unnecessary start to the day; best walk round and run no risk at all. However, if there’s no one up the ladder then it’s not really necessary to walk round it mainly because, by doing so, you would venture out into the road and thereby increase your risk of and accident…a sort of safety mechanism in reverse if you like…not because to do so would bring you bad luck because it is…well…stupid.

That belief of ensuring protection from bad events by copying or taking advantage of information gained was brought to mind just recently when I discovered that, on this day in 1982, David Crosby was arrested in San Diego whilst driving under the influence and, aside from the loaded, unlicensed .45 calibre handgun he had in the glove-box the police also found significant quantities of Quaaludes, cocaine and various drug impedimenta. Now, I don’t know about you but the thought of an ego-centric, nervous pop star filled to the gunnels with various chemicals and in charge of a loaded .45 handgun…? The words ‘safety’ and ‘security’ aren't the first two that come to mind. It was when he was questioned about the gun, however, that he used the two words that intrigued me; “John Lennon” he said.

And I got to thinking. 

I mean no disrespect to Mr. Crosby, really I don’t. I’m reasonably well-versed in The Byrds career, ‘Sweetheart of the Rodeo’ really is a seminal piece of work, and CSNY, when they weren't shoving their individual egos up each others arses, did some excellent recordings, ‘Teach Your Children Well’ being just one of them, but there’s a level of self-delusion going on here… isn't there? Crosby was no John Lennon, not in the global fame and influence sense at any rate, and yet here he was claiming that he could be the next one after Mr. Lennon.

OK, I mean, maybe Mr. Crosby, to the annoyance of his fellow band mates, did indulge in political diatribes mid-gig so he may well have pissed folk off, but not to the extent of them wanting him dead surely? Or, maybe George Bush’s cohorts were more mercenary than we thought. If you use the JFK/Martin Luther King timeline as a measure of the thinking process then surely the next one would more likely have been someone who had greater influence on the less controllable generation. Someone whose philosophy, habits and place in society marked them out as a target, rather than just a musician (yes, OK, a very good one, I’ll give you that) but just a musician who spent the majority of their career recording, touring, being catered for at every turn and ill-advisedly involving themselves in sincere but grandstanding political activism  whilst either spaced out by drink or drugs or getting a new liver or spending time as a guest of the various correctional institutions peculiar to the U.S. or scrapping with their band mates…that that sort of person would have been fairly low on the personal Armageddon radar of the  various stalkers and nutcases who are attracted to fame and the famous; is that unkind? Wasn't meant to be, just IMHO.

Come to think, when the reverse bad-luck syndrome comes up, I’m reminded of the two word reply given to a reporter who saw the beginnings of change for women happening in a country where civil war and violence had shaped the backdrop for that change. It seemed that sexual equality would grow from a place where, up ‘til then, male domination had held sway. This reporter went away for several years and returned to find that, post hostilities, women were still walking ten paces behind their husbands. When she asked why, in the face of all the promise, this seeming subservience was still happening, the voice from behind the headdress simply said;

“Land mines.”

Reasons to be pretty annoyed with oneself.....

March 27th – I think I would have got on better with Ian Dury if he’d been just a performance poet sort of without the Blockheads. Not that the Blockheads weren't a good band, I’m sure they were, but I never quite got on with their musical interpretations of Dury’s lyrics…his poetry…his lyrical poetry…whatever. Those…words… as a stand-alone? Just excellent. I mean, who can resist the descriptive word-choreography of: - 

“I had a love affair with Nina, in the back of my Cortina,

A seasoned-up hyena could not have been more obscener.”

Magical.

Like John Cooper Clarke, who is every bit as skilled a wordsmith as Dury, possibly even more so, the colour, the texture and sense of place, the time conjured up in their work is tangible. Saw Mr. Cooper Clarke in Wolverhampton, at The Lighthouse, a cinema-cum-entertainment venue, in the company of about ten or a dozen other people…? Couldn't believe it. That a man of his stature doing a well-publicised gig should have an audience barely in double figures. Dury had a bigger following but I’d guess that, too, was a fairly locked-in fan base given his performance persona and theatricality. Did he ever do just readings of his work? Would have gone to that; as it was I never did see him live and I think that was probably my loss (if memory serves, wasn't he treated for his bout of polio in Truro?)

Cut to 2012, when Graeae Theatre put out a call for musicians to audition and take part in a second tour of their acclaimed musical, ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’ which was based on Mr. Dury’s back-catalogue. Well, I could bash a drum in my time so I thought;

“Why not?”

There was no age range required and as I’d worked with Graeae on a couple of projects back when I was at the Arena Theatre in Wolverhampton and so knew their work ethic and philosophy, I figured they’d a be a good company to work for. Anyhow, things led to things and my writing and touring production-manager workload was such that I found myself driving across from Cornwall on the day of the audition in London with a CD of Ian Dury and the Blockheads on the player trying to learn the rhythm patterns as I listened to SatNav tell me where I was going wrong. I got to the audition and was the last one to try out. Went in, introduced myself to three delightful people, sat down and played three of the tunes from the show.

Now, I have to say here and now that, had I been them I wouldn't have touched me with a barge pole. I wasn't well prepared and should have been; I was unfamiliar with the music when I should have learnt it; I was loud (always have been – see March 23rd) and ill-disciplined musically. Anyhow, they were as kind to me as a very kind thing, did the three songs then gave me a;

“Thank you, dear, we’ll let you know.” farewell.

“Well, Peter, you were shit.” I said to myself as I left.

Driving back home, stopped for coffee on the motorway, mobile rings, its Graeae. 

“Yes, Peter, we thought you were shit too.”

Don’t blame them. The tour went ahead and was a storming success for the second time; excellent by all accounts. I didn't get to see it (typical) so, I missed seeing Ian Dury and the Blockheads when he was alive, buggered up the chance to play his stuff in a musical about him after he'd died and failed to see the musical when it came to the theatre in Truro…three strikes and I was out.

'If he farted they'd clap.'

March 26th – There was a method in the late 18^th/19^th Century that opera singers used in order to bolster failing careers or to intimidate up-an-coming youngsters who were proving to be a threat to the ‘established star’; they were called 'claques'.

The dictionary description of claques is:

‘A group of people hired to applaud (or heckle) a performer or public speaker – a group of sycophantic followers’

This came from the practice of paying members of an audience for their support at the Paris opera. But then, that’s opera for you; peopled by vocalists who believe they are of a higher value than anyone else and surrounded by other people who tell them they are. One would have thought this rough and ready ego-stroke had become outdated; not a bit of it. There have been several instances in the very recent past of claques attending La Scala in Milan and disturbing a performance with their shouts of encouragement or abuse for various performers to such an extent that fighting often broke out. Maria Callas suffered badly with their comments and booing, with police being called in to help restore order, and missiles being thrown at her during a performance of ‘Anna Bolena’. Even now, the modern tenors, Carreras, Domingo and Pavarotti, they all have or had their devotees, fans who thought they could do no wrong, followed them everywhere and staunchly defended their territory of particular arias:

“Well, yes, Peter, but that’s opera and we all know what a bunch of twinkle-twerps they can be because you've already said so. Never happens in the rock world.”

Well, yes to the first…and no to the second…

There are all sorts of tricks that happen in the rock music world, particularly when you’re touring in a showcase of two or three bands, one of which is, inevitably, ‘the headline act’. Alteration of the sound mixing desk settings carefully arrived at in the sound check just before one band or the other goes on; fewer speakers or less stage room being available to the support acts; only basic lighting allowed for the support acts; re-orientation of critical bits of supposedly shared kit…a ruse often perpetrated on the drummer in the band was to find, with all of twenty seconds to go to the start of his band's set, that the kik drum rim is now loose... All of these things are calque-ing by another name. Modern support bands do it today in a round-about way by selling tickets to their friends in the hope that the venue is packed for them then empties when their set is over, therefore embarrassing the headline act. Trouble is ALL the bands on the bill do this so the main winner is the venue owner in the form of bar takings.

On this day in 1966, a band called ‘The Strangeurs’ whose front man was Steve Tyler (later of ‘Aerosmith’) opened for the ‘Byrds’ and they arranged for a gaggle of girls to sit in the front row and scream for them. It was all unnecessary as the crowd went nuts for them (because girls do that sort of thing) and ‘The Strangeurs’ outstayed their welcome by four songs (bet the ‘Byrds’ were thrilled at this). But it just goes to show, in almost any branch of the entertainment industry, when egos and competition come in the front door fair-play and honest integrity goes out the window…

Beck-ola...

March 25th – It seems to be the lot of great talent or great music to be reduced down to the lowest common denominator.

You know how it goes; you sit and write a classic song, you slave over the lyrics and where the tension in the music should be, where the release. You nurture it through the rehearsal stage and into the recording studio where hours of post-recording time are used up as you balance and mix the raw sound into a coherent whole that is fit to be released into the world. People listen to it, they buy it in their droves until it becomes one of the pieces of your art that defines your life…right up to the point where it gets picked up by a detergent company or the drunken mob; from then on, if you've got anything left of your soul, its set to haunt you. 

I've sort of brushed up against Jeff Beck before in these musings of mine (Jan 10th…and my guess is you already know what’s coming) when I vented my spleen at Mr. Stewart. But with the news that he’d joined the Yardbirds (Mr. Beck not Mr. Stewart that is) on this day in 1965, I thought a few more words about a guitarist who is so underrated wouldn't go amiss.

As I also mentioned on that same day, one of my top 25 albums is ‘Truth’ by Jeff Beck (with Beck and various artists). Tracks like, ‘Aint Superstitious’, Shapes of Things’ (a Yardbirds hit that I've also mentioned before) and ‘Blues Deluxe’ (if you’re in any way, shape or form a blues fan – music not football team…in their case, I use the word, ‘football’ in its loosest possible sense…then I really can’t recommend that track any higher) but the whole album never, ever fails to impress; not a duff track on it. Anyway, moving on, Mr. Beck’s done all modern music genres and the who’s-who he’s played with is eye-watering, as is the list of bands that wanted him to join them or that have got him to guest with them.

(How good?  Stop reading this rubbish, go onto YouTube and call up ‘jeff beck live’ then sit back and watch the full Ronnie Scott’s Show…one hour forty of sheer talent with moments that will take your breath away, if you’re living that is, PLUS the only bass player, apart from Bob Clifton, that I’d like date. The bass solo at about 12 minutes in proves she’s not just there for her looks; she even makes Beck up his game…Oh, and for the drummers amongst you…a better than average tub-thumper too, IMHO)

OK? Done it? Back now? Right.

Now, with so much seemingly going for him it seems odd that he’s virtually unknown outside the muso-circles of the period (mainly 60’s/70’s) and the sad fuckers like me. However, I guarantee that if I said, “Hi-Ho, Silver Lining”, you’d make an immediate connection, but unfortunately not with who played it; am I right or am I right?

Part of the problem seems to be his level of equanimity within the band dynamic – when the Yardbirds were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame he made his acceptance speech:

“Someone told me I should be proud tonight... But I'm not, because they kicked me out....They did... Fuck them.”

This take no prisoners attitude also comes to the fore, apparently, when recording too. It is said to be his fastidiousness about the production values and his own contribution to the finished article that can stretch the band model to breaking point (to the point where there’s a tale that after returning to the studio to do countless re-takes and overdubs, he rang the studio some six weeks after the recording sessions had ended to book some time to re-record the lead break only to be told, ‘Sorry, Jeff, but the record’s in the shops’). But I think possibly the main reason he’s not bigger in the national music conscience is because he’s never really been part of an established band; no recognisable template with which to associated him with.

It would seem he’s been a journeying musician and session man for just about the whole of his career and through that, all musicians of any notable quality rate him; he is, in fact, the guitarist’s guitarist. We’re talking about a musician who’s got two honorary degrees, a fistful of Grammys, has won Mojo awards, been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and has played with anybody who is anybody in the modern-music world, and yet no one knew of him…not until ‘Hi-Ho, Silver Lining’ hit the scene.

And that will probably be the one he’s remembered for.

The one that piss-heads-united sing, the one that’s immediately followed by the sound of vomiting, the one every drunken up-chucker knows the words to even and above their own name. Great; some legacy…

Careful; you might just smile...

March 24th – I never even knew they were married! I suppose though, when I think back, because she always looked so bloody miserable, I should’ve guessed.

What is it with folk that having it all makes them so bloody sour? I mean, take whassername, her out of the Spice Girls, the one that married that footballer….wore a dress (not her, him) played soccer in the States (not very well)…Beckham! That’s it! Victoria! Got it! Right, take Victoria Beckham for starters. Is it a persona she cultivates in order to look cool, this look of perpetual boredom? Weren't there some lines of dialogue in that Umberto Eco book/film, ‘The Name of the Rose’ about comedy being against religious teachings because laughter made man look like an ape? Well, maybe Victoria is labouring under the same misapprehension ‘cos I can honestly say I've never seen her smile…I mean EVER. My guess is she’s been told that it’ll give her laughter lines, and...

(sorry for the delay, just sat down after a get-out at the theatre to write this, set iTunes to ‘random’ and headset on and the first track that played was the Doobie Bros…stopped me typing for a bit; ‘Without You’; excellent track…) now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the Beckhams… nah, not really...can't be arsed, they were just a diversion, too much been said about them already. What I was originally on about was Jack and Meg White.

I know the White Stripes were seen as rock band flavour of the month but I only ever saw them as ‘not quite a group’. I mean, OK, he could pluck a guitar a bit and she could whack a drum head but I always figured he was adequate and she was mediocre; were they too tight-fisted to pay a bass player? Well, it seems...

Sorry, just put the Doobie Bros on again, same track…same result, sorry…erm…yeah, right, White Stripes.

Well it seems that on this day in 2000 they got divorced, but they remained together as a working duo for a further eleven years…and forgive my irreverence but by god it showed. There seemed to be absolutely no joy in their working relationship nor in the music they made, and that begs the question, “Why do it?”

Why do something that makes you look so sodding fed up and pissed off. Is it just for the money, the fame, certainly wasn’t for their relationship. If I was involved in something that had flipped over my marriage I’d give carrying on doing it some serious thought, wouldn't you? Mind you, their split came shortly after releasing their second album, ‘De Stijl’.

My guess? That album title was the straw that broke the gerbils back because whoever insisted on that album title must have been so far up their own ass they deserved to be given the heave-ho, with just a gold band for company…

A different wall of sound

March 23rd – Two of the reasons I’m partially deaf…I SAID TWO OF THE REASONS I’M PARTIALLY DEAF is my involvement with game shooting and my involvement with rock bands.

From the shooting point of view, as a gamekeeper for many years, I used to go to large scale driven days as a loader; game shooting when the birds come over the guns so thick and fast they need two guns per person in order to keep up. There was a time, back in the 1910’s, when they used three and four guns per person but this was the heyday of driven game shooting. Post the 14/18 war these large scale bateaux all but ceased and I doubt there are many low-ground, double-gun shoots running these days; grouse is another thing, but not many pheasant shoots of that calibre any more.

Well, as a loader and pre the intrusion of H&S, I’d stand alongside the shooter, take one double-barrel shotgun from him as he/she emptied it, pass back a full one, load the empty one, take back the by now empty one one, pass the loaded one, load it…… No ear defenders back then hence the deafness, which had already started to take hold. Earlier deafness had been kick-started by my days as a rock drummer in the 60’s through to the 90’s. I seem to remember, somewhere in ‘The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ about a rock band setting up their equipment then riding off to a distant planet because, “…this was going to be a seriously loud gig…” Well, in the 60’s this was the everyday.

Nowadays, musicians are cushioned from the effects of hyper volume by tailor-made earpieces that also act as foldback, hence the lack of speakers along the front of the stage (so nothing for the lead and bass guitarists to lift a foot onto and pose…thank god). However, drummers are a law unto themselves even with all this technology. Even now they still insist on running a speaker the size of Kent for their foldback and still complain they can’t hear the band (course you can’t, you dumb f**k, you’re DEAF! Deaf from the past ten years of listening to speakers, the volume of which can part hair and split the atom) and what was I? Yup…I was that drummer. 

Everything these days is mic-ed up and sent through the PA so the ultra high volumes the audience hear bypass the band; they get fed what’s known as a monitor signal. This allows them to hear all the other members of the band at a sensible volume and so keep in time and in tune…unless you're a member of The Bay City Rollers; then nothing will save you. But back in the day there was none of this protection and care; particularly for drummers.

A list of the kit in one of the bands I played in may help here.

The lead guitarist had 4 – 4x12 Marshall Speaker Cabs split left and right along the back wall plus 2x100 watt Marshall Amps. 

The rhythm guitarist had 2 – 4x12 Marshall Speaker Cabs split left and right along the back wall plus 2x100 watt Marshall Amps.

The Bass guitarist had 4 – 2x15 Marshall Speaker Cabs split left and right along the back wall plus 2x100 watt Marshall Amps.

The organist had a Leslie cabinet passed through 1x100 watt Orange Amp and into 4 – 4x12 Orange Speaker Cabs split left and right along the back wall. 

The vocalist ran 1x100 watt Marshall Amp into 2 – 4x12 Marshall Column Speaker Cabs split D/S extreme left and right…

Me? I had an acoustic drum kit with five toms, two kik drums, snare, hi-hat and several cymbals….that’s ‘acoustic’ as in ‘no amplification’.

A small gap was left roughly centre stage where I would set up in front of the distributed speaker stacks out of which emanated a veritable tsunami of noise and from where I was expected to make my presence felt.

Were we loud? We were so loud that, when we were in full flight and conversation was impossible and breathing difficult; you know those excellent CGI sequences in ‘Gravity’ when the debris hits? It was like that but just sound. Those able to move about on stage (so guitarists and vocalist) could at least find dead spots in which to avoid the upper limits of acoustic-drama and the organist, set S/R for most of our sets, was on the periphery of the massive volume we released. Set S/C and fixed, I sat in this tortuous position for months, years, often-times five nights a week. So, be warned…I SAID, BE WARNED…Y’ DEAF OLD TROUT!

It was on this day in 2010 that Jim Marshall died; is it too late to sue? I SAID……

Holiday brochure with a difference...

March 22nd – As an outsider, I think the human race has done some clever things and some dumb things. I mean, we invented the Internet then filled it with adverts and porn – we created music then gave it to Justin Bieber and Mister Blobby for safekeeping – we created the wheel then put it on the car – we deciphered the code for our DNA and thought  insurance companies were a good idea – we created rocket propulsion then put a bomb on it – we created a whole host of gourmet food programmes where chefs create fancy menus for rich, overindulged people to test before cooking them again for other rich, overindulged people to scoff then we watch as half a nation starves for want of a crust of stale bread… Ooppsss, sorry, got political there; apologies…well, you get my drift. 

It just seems that no matter the advancement of our society and how astounding our discoveries and understanding become, we seem hell bent on taking a perfectly sound, rational and helpful set of circumstances and fucking it over. It’s as though the human race is set on a course of self-destruction with sensibility taking a back seat to the driving force of cynical manipulation. Take the space programme, those rockets we put bombs on I mentioned earlier?

OK, they haven’t all been lined up for destruction purposes, some of them have been used for research and some been sent on voyages of discovery, to travel to other planets and seek out new life; to boldly go… The Moon, Mars, Venus, Jupiter, Saturn, all these have either had a rocket from their neighbours visit them or have suffered a fly-by in recent years. This work is, ostensibly, to discover;

1) Which planets held life and/or;

2) If there is life still present.

And I guess Mars was the one that held out the most prospect of finding one or the other.

This planet captured the imagination to such an extent that, when the Mercury Theatre on the Air broadcast H.G. Wells’ story, ‘War of the Worlds’ in 1939, folk ran out of their homes and abandoned their cars mid-highway, yelling and screaming in fright, believing that an alien invasion was imminent…mind you this was in the U.S. If it’d happened in the UK, in Wolverhampton to be more precise, people would also have run out onto the streets but they’d be armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight…but that’s the Black Country mentality for you.

To try and prevent us being caught on the hop by an unannounced calling card from deep-space nine, the checking of the airwaves for sounds of extraterrestrial life soak up hours…weeks…years of people’s time and the sightings of spaceships year-on-year gives a constant supply of nut-case headlines for the newspapers. And yet…

We seem convinced that we are not alone and all of our intelligence (I mean, what other civilisation could have invented Pepperami) is geared up to finding other life, if not close at hand (?) then on an as yet undiscovered planet in an as yet undiscovered galaxy. So given we have invested billions and, through our own illogical logic, believe we have the shared suggestions of a bank of highly intelligent people in order for us to make the right introduction to any visiting blob from another planet, you’d think we’d have a strategy mapped out. One that would give any alien cause to be impressed by the level of intelligence they were about to encounter but also have a little trepidation as to what to expect at that first contact with us, wouldn't you? It should surprise you not at all then to find that, regardless of all the high-minded fancy talk by politicians, professors and phonetic experts, I had a LOL moment in the car yesterday when I heard that ‘Voyager 1’ had, supposedly left our solar system.

There’s some dispute about this but that’s not what I found funny. What I did find unfathomable was that as a first taster of what these aliens could expect when they visited, to tempt them into giving us a try if you will, the ship had been loaded with various examples of our high advancement and creativity. Sensible, you’d think, except ‘Voyager 1’ was carrying, amongst other things, music by Chuck Berry.

Now, I don’t know about you but if I were a visiting alien looking to take a well deserved holiday that’d be like expecting Bermuda but finding Blackpool. Bad enough they should have to endure ‘Extreme Grooming’ let alone, ‘My Ding-a-Ling’.

As if that weren’t enough, the result of a 2004 poll on this day voted Ozzy Osborne as the best person to welcome aliens to Earth. With that coupling you have all the essential ingredients in place for ‘War of the Worlds II – The End of the Unintelligible by the Incoherent’.

Song of Solomon

March 21st –We all know the entertainment world can be a shitty business at times; uplifting, mind-changing, world-influencing, yes…but shitty at times too. You would like to believe that moral exactitude would cause the fair-play nerve to be activated in people, particularly when using someone else’s musical composition to either do a cover version of it or adapt it. At the very least musical camaraderie should demand that you credit the original, even if that original composer is dead. So the story of the African musician, Solomon Linda, not only struck a chord with my musical experiences but also with my sometime view of the industry. 
Briefly, Mr. Linda was a very popular singer in the 30’s/40’s. In 1939 he adapted a native folk song to suit the band she was with and the time she was performing with them. ‘Mbube’ was the result, and it did very well. 

Spin on to 1952 and the American folk group, The Weavers, who were pioneers of the protest/fair play for all/folk roots-right-on movement that had links with many of the Great Depression singers. One of the folk icons, Pete Seeger, took the song, ‘Mbube’ and re-titled it ‘Wimoweh’ and The Weavers did very well out of it. It became a signature piece for them and was the high spot of the Carnegie Hall show they did in 1955.
Spin on to 1959 and the American group, The Kingston Trio, given a hard time by the folk community due to their ambivalence to politics, released their version of ‘Wimoweh’, a cover version of the cover version by The Weavers which was a cover adaptation of Mr. Linda’s recording. 

Spin on to 1961 and a group called The Tokens. They recorded and released a single, ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’, Mbube/Wimoweh by any other name, and created a career out of it.

Now, with all these cover versions and adaptations being done of Mr. Linda’s original version you’d think he would be doing nicely out of it. I mean, as most composers of pop tunes agree, cover versions of their original work by other performers really turns the cash, so Mr. Linda should have been quid’s in. Trouble was Mr. Linda made nothing from it. He sold the rights of his song to the recording company for 10 shillings…50p to you post decimalisation folk, and there’s the difference right there, that someone should be in such a parlous position as to agree to sell their creative work for 50p (that’s £44 in today’s prices and it wouldn’t even buy you a Tory breakfast) but Mr. Linda did, and from then on he was written out of the equation.

Spin on to 1962 and Solomon Linda dies: Everybody else connected to the song did very nicely, thank you, but Solomon? Solomon, when he died, was destitute and had nothing to leave to his family. The fact that, according to the British law in place at the time, the song’s rights should have reverted to Mr. Linda’s family until 25 years after his death seems to have been ignored by those who were still reaping the benefit from the song, monetarily and career-wise, and let’s not forget these are the careers and reputations of some very high-profile performers; The Weavers, The Kingston Trio and The Tokens amongst them, had been built using this song as one of the central props to their success.

You can imagine my pleasure then when I read that, on this day in 2006, 40 plus years after Solomon Linda’s death, his three surviving daughters, who were still scrambling in a life in penury, finally won their court battle to have one quarter of the royalties of The Tokens record awarded to them. They had to fight it all the way, there were no gifts, no fellow feeling or understanding, and all the other users of Mr. Linda’s work, those right-on social types never contributed a sou.

A result? I guess, it’s just a pity those connected to this song and who did so well out of didn't see fit to let Mr. Linda benefit from his work in his own lifetime; to at least give him and his family the chance to live at a level of comfort slightly above ‘destitution’, like so many of those they claimed to champion.

Mislabeled.

March 20th – It’s interesting the way things work out, how as one door shuts another opens (or in my case, as the one door behind me closes so a fake breeze blows in from nowhere and shuts the one that had just opened therefore enclosing me in a black box which is empty of opportunities and avenues of escape). In the music business, as in almost any branch of the entertainment industry, you rely on who and what you are for your shop window and you’re only as good as your last show. Often-times, as soon as you get one job, you know for a certainty that you’re unemployed, the contract you’re on will end, you’re sacked and you need to start scrabbling around for the next job…now! However, all is not lost.

One of the many continue-in-work lifelines that’ve been thrown to composers and performers has been the use of popular music in advertising. It can revive back-catalogues and make stars of unknowns. The stone-washed jeans/‘Heard it Through the Grapevine’ commercial phenomena is a case in point; right up to the point when that kid opened his mouth to sing…some things don’t always end up as balloons and cake sessions and are best left to the imagination. Another has been the rise in the use of established genres and well known composers to create the sound backdrop to video games and, in recent times, of the highly sophisticated games-market for youngsters.

All this started back in 1982. There were musical soundtracks laid down to other fledgling games before then but these were usually electronic in nature and far from listenable to all but an android. It was only when the pop duo Buckner & Garcia released their hit single, ‘Pac-Man Fever’ on this day, that the seed must have been sown in the fallow (shallow) minds of the recording industry that here was an avenue of longevity for their roster of artists…and another way for them to shell a buck. Now you may think the preceding is a neat segue into something cranial in the literate cannon of pop music…? Fools! You should know me by now.

What this is actually about is that I made a connection that wasn't there, and with a mind that resembles a rummage sale in a woollen warehouse, it sort of made sense to me. The thought was that the title of Buckner & Garcia’s single, ‘Pac-Man Fever’, reminded me of an album title: ‘Cat-Scratch Fever’ (see; I’m a really uncomplicated individual with poor hearing and even poorer cognitive skills). This album, released by Ted Nugent, is where the connection ends because on past performance he can possibly be classed as a video nasty.

Mr. Nugent first came to my notice when I picked up an album, ‘Journey to the Centre of the Mind’ released in 1968 by a band called ‘The American Amboy Dukes’. They added the tag ‘American’ so they wouldn't be confused with a U.K. band, ‘The Amboy Dukes’. In fairness that’d be some stretch of the imagination as you only have to listen to the opening of the title track of the ‘Journey…..’ album and compare it with the single release of ‘The Amboy Dukes’ called ‘Judy in Disguise (with glasses)’ to discover there’s no way any confusion could have been made. 

‘The American Amboy Dukes’ were a full-on, 60’s hippie band rock band (one look at their YouTube footage of ‘Journey to the Centre of the Mind’ will show you the sell-tactic they used; the costume, the hair, the dancing wallpaper (sorry, dancing girls) the whole ball of wax). With an album cover that boasted a selection of drug paraphernalia and album tracks with the titles, ‘Why Is a Carrot More Orange than an Orange?’ and ‘Death is Life’ and ‘Surrender To Your Kinks’ and ‘Missionary Mary’ (as well as the album’s title track) it was easy for his followers to penetrate the central tenet of  him and this band; namely an anti-establishment collective who, in order to step outside the world of the suited cretins who ruled our lives so badly and got us into wars, chose a path of drugs, booze and broads or, in these PC times, of substance abuse and misogyny in order to stick two fingers up at the ‘the man’. When Mr. Nugent went solo he built on that reputation with the adrenaline-fuelled shows he put on and the album covers he used to advertise his wares all spoke of a wild, wild guy, fuckaring and hookahring his way through a life destined to be short. This was the persona he peddled. His playing style and lyrics seemingly spoke of fighting, drinking, shagging and dying…all good stuff for the hurricane-rock generation; except that wasn't what he was about; not at all.

Apparently he didn't drink…or smoke…or do drugs but was and is in fact a very strong advocate of the Second Amendment. So-much-so that when Obama was elected he said, basically, this Presidency was a ‘Pimps, whores and welfare brats’ dream come true (?) But he still attended Obama’s inaugural ceremony… (??)

That sort of mixed-message, ‘stardom whatever the cost’ attitude I find a bit…well…questionable. I mean, if it’s something you don’t subscribe to then why make it a feature of your work, unless, of course, it’s just the way to a means, which then becomes something a little more than just questionable; it’s shallow and disingenuous. Or am I, are we, all being just a little naïve when reading the messages of our chosen cultural leaders; like the slebs of today sporting tattoos. Featured heavily in all their promo shoots this body-art is seen and copied by kids. It’s only after they’re branded for real that it then becomes apparent the stars have had theirs painted on ‘cos although they can’t afford to be permanently marked, on account of their modelling/film career, unlike all their fans they can afford the employ of an artist to paint 'em and wipe 'em. Reminds me; went to an after gig party in Brum in 68/9, I think. A girlfriend of my then fiancé, whose boyfriend had gone to get more booze, came out of a darkened room where she’d obviously been canoodling with another.

“Is my make-up smudged?” she asked, “Shouldn't have really but he is a hunk…and I don’t want X to suspect anything.” but not realising the guy she’d been necking with had obviously had a nosebleed mid-snog…
Sorry, off-message. Ted Nugent and the meaning of hypocrisy.

Well the sleb tattoo thing is a bit like me finding out that Mr. Nugent had hidden shallows in his on-stage/off stage persona; yes, I know;

“That’s very naive of you, Peter. ‘Course it’s an act!”

I never said I was perfect. If nothing else, these gibberings of mine should have proven that by now. But what I will say in my defence is when I discover something I’ve once supported is not right, I own up and don’t give it credence or support…except when it comes to making my recipe for decadent porridge for my breakfast; then, I’m afraid, against all the information and warnings… Whatever, the more misogynistic, psychedelic (with all that that word implies to a 60’s kid) and samey Mr. Nugent’s albums got and the more I found out about him, the more I lost interest.

So, Mr. Nugent fell off my radar and it was only when he resurfaced as a champion of the NRA just a couple of years ago that I realised he’d stopped touring and retired to his ranch, purchased no doubt with the proceeds of his live-a-fib philosophy, and was busy killing stuff (shot-cat fever possibly) that I did a little more considering…and then couldn't help thinking about that other American icon, Charlton Heston. You see, we do it all the time, we mix up the entertainment persona with the actual persona and our trusting nature robs us of our innate common sense which would normally say;

“Ha! You've GOT to be kidding; right?”

about those we think are just too good to be true; you know the phrase, don’t you? ‘If something’s too good to be true then it probably is’.

You see, Mr. Heston made films like ‘The Ten Commandments’ and ‘El Cid’ and ‘Ben Hur’ and by that output and in our childish eyes was seemingly a spokesman for Judeo Christian values and morals. Then gradually the mixed messages started coming. He marched with Martin Luther King yet voted for Goldwater…he spoke against the Vietnam War but supported the Iraq invasion…he bollocked Time Warner for releasing an ‘Ice-T' track called, ‘Cop Killer’ (the words of which supposedly support the killing of policemen) yet made that speech during his time as the NRA spokesman about a proposed change to the Second Amendment which would compromise his right to own a gun; remember it? That they would have to remove his rifle from his, “cold, dead hand”?

Today’s moral: - Rock Stars, Film Stars and Celebrities. They don’t always do what it says on the tin.